


Forget-Me-Not

by Wheely_Jessi



Series: How Do I Love Thee? [6]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Dementia, F/F, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Memory, Memory Loss, Old Age, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, fluffy flashbacks, lots more fluff than I usually write
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2018-12-24 08:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 63,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12009243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wheely_Jessi/pseuds/Wheely_Jessi
Summary: Patsy is in the early stages of dementia and, her memory having once been her greatest asset, is struggling to adjust. Ever medically-minded, she and Delia concoct a plan to stem the advancing disease, based on Delia’s recollections of recovering from her accident and Patsy’s love of gardening. Plot a mixture of current interactions and flashbacks from throughout their history. Hopefully an appropriate balance of angst (all of which has nothing to do with their relationship) and fluff (which has everything to do with their relationship).





	1. January - Juniper, Gin and Jubilation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [patiencebusby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patiencebusby/gifts).



> Having been away from the fandom (and online communities in general) for a while, for a variety of complicated reasons, I’m back and super excited to catch up on all the wonderful stories shared in this lovely corner of the internet. I also thought I shouldn’t return empty-handed. Here, then, is my humble offering. Another post-canon fic, set over the course of 2017, so Patsy is 83-84 and Delia is 79-80. Sort of a prequel to my ‘A Marathon of Memories’, if you’ve read that – although, actually, this was started way before it. I just only got back to it recently, as a present for my wonderful friend and brilliant beta, @patiencebusby, to congratulate her on fabulous A Level results and the beginning of her own medical training.
> 
> The first stage of Pats and Deels’ memory project involves large quantities of gin. Reminiscence ensues of similarly drunken times in their younger years, especially during training. 
> 
> There will be thirteen chapters, one for each month of the year, and an epilogue. Hopefully it’ll be worth sticking with!

When Delia Busby-Mount woke on the morning of Monday 2nd January 2017, she stretched contentedly, reaching her arms as high above her head as they would go. She was sure, even after all these years, that the feeling of having the full expanse of a queen-size bed to explore would never get boring. Equally strong was her sense that she would never get tired of the woman with whom she was lucky enough to share it – whatever life might throw at them. After wiggling slightly to remove the protective orthopaedic pillow that rested between her knees, and then chucking it without ceremony onto the floor beside the bed, she rolled over to face the middle of the mattress. Her intent had been to wake that very same woman with a breathy ‘ _Bore da_ ’ and a snatched kiss or two, but she found that her plan had been thwarted before it was made. She was currently the sole occupant of not just their bed, but their bedroom – and, from the neat edges gracing the other side of the duvet, it would appear that she had been alone for quite some time.

Delia sighed. Trust Patsy to sneak out quietly in order that she would stay sleeping; clearly she had become over-confident in her belief that she had her beloved’s behaviour so deeply-imprinted in her brain that even the most fleeting footfall would be sufficient disturbance. Still, she wasn’t sure quite how she’d managed it, and on today of all days. If it had been the usual sort of post-celebratory slumber of this time of year, that might just have offered an explanation, but they had both been restless and taken a good few hours to drop off – with good reason. Sighing again, Delia rolled back onto her right side and made to sit up, steeling herself for the impending search of their not insignificantly-sized flat with the reminder that it was vital to maintain a calm exterior throughout. Anything else would just exacerbate their already-charged emotions. Her feet found the carpet and, as they did so, she noticed the reason behind her wife’s silent exit. She had moved her slippers around to Delia’s side of the bed, and then padded out, barefoot. At least that meant she wouldn’t have gone far. Putting her own pair on and reaching down to pick up the culprits, Delia stood, steadying herself briefly against the bed frame. 

It was unwise to put it off any longer. She had to seek Patsy out and have a conversation – if that was in fact an accurate appraisal of their communication in light of her recently-rediscovered refusal to open up. This characteristic, for so long a dim and distant memory, had returned with a vengeance in the week between Christmas and New Year. Part of her had expected it, because there was always a slight shift in her soulmate’s sensitivity during the ‘festive season’, for obvious reasons – but this seemed extreme even by Patsy’s standards. For equally obvious reasons, Delia thought grimly as she walked down the passage from the bedroom to the lounge, giving herself a stern mental rebuke for having the audacity to judge.

When she reached the threshold of the front room, she choked back a sigh of relief at the sight of her wife, just as barefoot as she had supposed and gazing out of the window at the communal garden which she had largely commandeered for her private use as time went on. Allowing herself the smallest of exhalations, she stepped through the doorway, but stopped at the edge of the rug covering the centre of the wooden floor. It would not be helpful to surprise Patsy in this state, because she still harboured her deep childhood fear of being trapped, even in her most open moments. So, instead of reflexively enveloping her wife in a wordless hug as she so wished to do, Delia held back and verbalised her query for consent.

‘Pats?’

The nod Patsy gave as an answer was almost imperceptible, but it was enough. Delia stepped in close to her wife’s back and wrapped a single arm around her waist, using her other hand to proffer the errant pair of slippers. ‘You left these by mine, _cariad_ , and I thought you might want them. The floorboards are cold where you’re standing.’

‘Of course I did – I didn’t want to wake you.’

Delia smiled into Patsy’s neck at the confirmation of her suspicions. ‘You _hadn’t_ forgotten then?’

Patsy spun round to face her wife, eyes stormy, and Delia immediately regretted what was clearly a misplaced attempt at gentle humour. ‘You know as well as I do that it’s not that far advanced,’ Patsy said through gritted teeth, before snatching the slippers and bending down to put them on.

Delia raised both hands in a gesture of apology. ‘Oh, Pats, I didn’t mean...’ She trailed off, apparently unable to put all her years of medical training for just such a situation into practice when it was personal rather than professional.

Hearing the edge of desperation in Delia’s voice made Patsy contrite, and she inwardly cringed at her curtness. ‘Oh, Deels, that was uncalled for. In fact, my behaviour towards you this whole week has been positively beastly. I have displaced all of my frustration about this news onto you, which is horribly unfair. _Sori, cariad_.’

The English-accented pronunciation of the Welsh words hung in the air as the beginnings of a truce, and they smiled shyly at each other for a moment, neither wanting to be the one to break this new, companionable, kind of silence.

Eventually Patsy spoke again, the desire to explain more fully overriding every other emotion. ‘I just can’t understand why they’d have thought it a good idea to wait until after Christmas to tell us. Now we have simultaneously to come to terms with the fact that it was our last together and we didn’t know, whilst somehow starting off the year feeling like it has already ended. Patrick would never have been so callous,’ she scoffed, as though invoking the hallowed name of their erstwhile colleague, Dr Turner, was a sort of solution.

Delia took Patsy’s hand in hers and stroked the palm soothingly with her thumb. ‘We don’t know that for sure, Pats,’ she said, keeping her tone level.

‘We do. Even if I’m still here in body it won’t be _me_ you’re sharing it with.’ Patsy’s voice cracked as she fought back tears. ‘Damn it, Deels, why couldn’t I have had a stroke and be done with it, instead of this prolonged torture for both of us?’

Surmising that this was not the appropriate point at which to observe that vascular dementia involved precisely that – a series of small strokes – Delia merely brought Patsy in for the proper hug she had held off giving since entering the room, murmuring ‘Come _cwtch, cariad,_ ’ as Patsy’s head dipped onto her shoulder and their cheeks connected. As she enveloped her wife with warmth and a semblance of stability, Delia whispered further comforts into her majestically silver hair. ‘Nothing we face together could be torture, Pats; that has been our guiding principle throughout our shared life and it isn’t about to change because of a diagnosis. A preliminary, potential one, at that.’

‘But it won’t be together – I might be right here but I’ll get further and further away from you! It isn’t potential, they just said that to soften the blow, forgetting that we were both nurses and know all too well what the reality of such things means. It’ll be like Hong Kong all over again and I swore I’d never put you through that twice.’ The last sentence rushed out before Patsy could stop it and, when she realised what she had said, her sobs were enough to leave Delia’s shoulder damp. It would seem she still hadn’t forgiven herself for that lengthy separation, despite the nearly six intervening decades since then.

Delia kept quiet until her tears subsided, wanting this rare flow of unfettered feeling to run its natural course. As she waited, gazing out at the garden that had held Patsy’s rapt attention for much of the early morning, a squat tree caught her eye – juniper. She grinned against her wife’s hair as she saw it, suddenly struck by the perfect ploy with which to coax Patsy out of her despondency. She knew the tree had been cultivated with her in mind, because Patsy had pronounced it ‘short but of extreme importance to my wellbeing’. At the time it had garnered her a playful slap, but now Delia was grateful for the foresight.

Patsy’s sobs calmed at last and, as she looked up in an effort to apologise again, Delia shook her head in silent succour. Placing one palm gently against her wife’s lips, she used the other hand to wipe away a stray tear before cupping Patsy’s cheek and fixing her with a kind yet firm stare. ‘Hong Kong wasn’t your choice, _cariad_ , and I had to force you to go. Besides, I’d sooner compare the current situation to my accident, so if either of us has been "put through" anything I think you’ve got the guilt the wrong way 'round.’ She paused to intensify her stare a little, anticipating Patsy’s response – they had had this debate so frequently over the years, thanks to Patsy's therapist, that it was almost as if they were performing it by rote. ‘And no, Pats, you graciously lending me your bike that day does not make it your fault – not then, and definitely not now.’

Patsy grinned sheepishly, in spite of herself. ‘You know me far too well, Deels, and are far too forgiving. I’m not sure how I’ll ever be able to equal you, though I’ve spent more than the last fifty years trying my best.’

Delia nudged the side of Patsy’s cheek. ‘I do indeed, Mrs Busby-Mount,’ she breathed, pausing again to bask briefly in the glow of the smile that the use of their shared surname brought instantly to her wife’s face, its novelty still there. ‘I do indeed – and the reappearance of overly-self-deprecating Pats is welcome reassurance that your quirks haven’t gone anywhere. However, if you are really so keen to "equal me", you can start by putting some of the strategies you learnt in psychotherapy into practice; belittling yourself at this difficult time won’t help matters at all, will it? You need to be kind and caring and acknowledge that all your old struggles will have been brought to the surface.’

Patsy shook her head, the gesture a combination of agreement with Delia’s analysis of what she should do and wonderment at the way her brilliant, beautiful wife could be so perfectly patient – and ask for so little in return. Delia mirrored Patsy’s movement as she spoke again. ‘You forget, _cariad_ , you’ve had your façades down for so long now that it’ll take more than a steely look and several days of the silent treatment to push me away. Not that it ever did anyway, mind. I know exactly which thoughts are passing behind that formidable forehead right now, too, and I can tell you categorically that they are false. I’ve asked for one hell of a lot in return, and you’ve more than provided.’ Patsy opened her mouth to disagree, but Delia soldiered on with her point. ‘I wasn’t just fixed overnight, was I? Yes, I might’ve been well enough for Mam to be happy about leaving me in London to live at Nonnatus, but I still had lots of relearning to do, and trauma to process. Your combined love and labour helped me to do that. You perfectly and patiently put me through my paces, Pats, and now I have the opportunity to do the same in recompense. In fact, the similarity of the situations even allows me to steal some of your ideas...’         

This time the arch of Patsy’s brow was too sharp to miss. ‘Come now, Deels, you can’t expect me to agree with the comparison. You had lost your memory and merely needed assistance in the final stages of regaining it. I have mine, but am in the early stages of losing it, eventually irrevocably –’ She broke off and buried her face in her wife’s shoulder, overcome once again. Delia stood in silent solidarity, not wishing to pre-empt or rush anything, aware that Patsy had more to say. Perhaps her professional skills hadn’t completely disappeared, thank goodness. Delia breathed rhythmically in and out, waiting with her wife’s namesake virtue for the pattern of their respiration to match. As Patsy’s second bout of sobs subsided, she raised her head again, and forced out yet another apology, accompanied by a stern glance to insist on Delia’s acceptance. ‘I just can’t bear the idea of forgetting you, my darling, especially so soon after we’ve finally been able to declare our devotion to the world. I know how hard it was to have you not remember me and all the moments we had shared...’

Delia gripped her wife’s hand as tightly as their mutual arthritic frailty would allow. ‘Even more reason to hang on to them for as long as we possibly can. You have a particular talent for that, my love, and I think it’s about time we put it to use for your own benefit rather than anyone else’s.’ She paused, and released her grasp, willing Patsy to permit her to finish before arguing. When the only reply she received was the bemused expression on her wife’s face, she continued, satisfied that the reception would not be an entirely negative one. ‘Right. Turn around, and tell me which of the inhabitants of our garden most readily catches your eye.’

She waited as Patsy complied, wary that she could no longer gauge her facial expression, before cracking a smile at the decisive tone of the single word her wife spoke. ‘Juniper.’

‘And what does that “squat, unassuming shrub” make, dearest?’

Patsy turned on her slippered heel and matched Delia’s grin. ‘Gin, darling Deels – but why the general knowledge quiz? I’ll have to get Trix to tell you off for pushing alcohol on your vulnerable wife at this rate.’

Delia chuckled at the mention of their friend, knowing (as Patsy did too) that her battle towards sobriety had been hard, and that her continued triumph was not to be taken lightly, even these many years later. ‘And I’ll have to tell her you’ve been using her struggles as a bargaining chip in arguments.’

Patsy couldn’t keep the horror from her face. ‘That was not my intention at all! You know we both use humour as a coping mechanism for our respective traumas. I didn’t mean –’

‘Hush, Pats,’ Delia soothed, cutting her wife’s panic off before it could escalate again, and cursing herself for taking what she had supposed to be harmless fun just that little bit too far. In her relief and delight at the cheeky remark, and its confirmation that Patsy’s devious side was still very much a part of her, Delia had let herself get carried away. Just as she had let her thoughts skitter away now, it would seem, leaving Patsy hanging in need of further comfort. ‘Trix would be pleased to hear you’re bearing up so fabulously now; in fact, I might just text her with an update, because she’s been on tenterhooks since I told her you’d gone silent on me.’ She paused, taking Patsy’s hand as a reassurance that the last part of that sentence was not judgemental, and was greeted with a knowing smirk in return. Oh, how she had missed sly Pats this week. Heartened, she found she had courage finally to verbalise her plan. ‘Before I text her, though, I have one extra question. Do you recall that we have several years’ worth of unopened gin bottles in our liquor cabinet, as a result of people repeatedly buying it for you and refusing to acknowledge that it is most definitely not your drink?’

Patsy failed to stifle her surprised laughter at the conversation’s unexpected turn. ‘Of course I do – and I also recall the _reason_ it isn’t my drink. For now, at least,’ she finished softly.

‘Exactly. I thought it might be worth revisiting that time to strengthen those memories, just like we did for me. What say you, my love? Gin and giggles long past curfew? If it’s too terrible, you can always revert to whisky, I won’t mind,’ she added as a last enticement.

‘Delia Busby, you dark horse.’ Patsy was all glee and gratitude now.

Delia couldn’t believe her luck. ‘I was hoping that’d be the phrase you’d use, _cariad_.’

~

 _As Patsy Mount sat in her room at the Nurses’ Home of the Royal London Hospital, on the evening of Thursday 2 nd January 1958, she thought about how much had changed in the preceding year. In the preceding _three _years, if she was counting – which she was, because the novelty of marking the annual cycle of beginning and ending was still fresh enough to be noted. She had somehow avoided it prior to 1955, content (discontent?) to let each passing moment blur into the next, (almost) unconsciously continuing to deploy the strategy of suppression she had started in the camp, long after it was strictly necessary. Since 1955, though, her circumstances had altered significantly and (as a consequence) her sentiments could not be more different. She had found not only a vocation but a true friend, both things she had fervently wished for but had never allowed herself to hope might actually be granted._

_Right on cue, a light tap on the door announced the arrival of just that very friend – her identity confirmed by the lilting tones of her Welsh accent as she spoke, ever propriety and politeness. It was one of the most appealing aspects of Delia’s character, Patsy mused, her mind wandering over how lucky she had been to have such a staunchly moral supporter by her side almost since the day the course began. Her reverie came to an abrupt halt when she registered what Delia was saying, though, because it meant she had to jump into action. ‘Pats, it’s me, Deels – could you open the door for me, please? I’m carrying precious cargo and I don’t want to drop anything!’_

_As she stood up to comply with her friend’s request, Patsy held back a chuckle at the unabashed proclamation of clumsiness, another quality Delia possessed in apparent abundance. Indeed, it was probably the first thing Patsy had noticed. Actually, no ‘probably’ about it, given the near head-on collision that had occurred when they met. Whilst some may have found it infuriating (and, according to Delia, very many did), to Patsy it was endearing – like so much else of her friend’s personality. Still slightly too nervous to examine the implications of that revelation, however, for now Patsy would just brim over with gratitude for the trusting – trustworthy – nature of their friendship._

_And she could start by_ opening _the door, instead of merely leaning against it and ‘woolgathering’, as Matron would say. Grasping the handle tightly, she wrenched open the gnarled oak panel at last, to be greeted by the delightful sight of Delia. The diminutive (but darling) Welshwoman was wearing a mischievous grin, as usual, and her favourite yellow cardigan which (somewhat less usually) had a curious bulge beneath it. Patsy’s impressively overactive imagination immediately conjured up the worst, and she could not keep the crestfallen look out of her eyes or the concerned question from her lips. ‘Deels, when you said ‘precious cargo’...?’_

 _Conscious that she remained in the corridor, Delia giggled as quietly as her obvious mirth would permit, before pushing past Patsy into the room. Once inside, satisfied that the only recently-opened door was firmly shut behind her, she gazed solemnly up at her taller companion and instructed her to ‘Feel.’ Although wary of such intimate contact because of the potential insinuations it might inspire, Patsy did as asked, placing a tentative hand on the younger woman’s stomach – and feeling something distinctly harder (and more bottle-like) than expected. When their eyes met again, Delia could no longer stifle her laughter at the bemusement on Patsy’s face. ‘Oh, come_ on _, Pats – how many times have I done this!? I said I didn’t want to drop anything! Clearly it’s not a baby!’ With that final phrase, spoken rather more quietly than the rest to avoid detection, she whipped out a (sneakily-delabelled) bottle._

_The surprise and relief Patsy felt allowed her at last to let go and join Delia in her joy, as muted as it had to be. Once they had both calmed down a little, Patsy assumed a stance of mock-reproof. ‘Contraband at such an early hour? Quite the way to start the year.’_

_Delia fought to keep her features still. ‘Well, Miss High and Mighty Mount,’ she said with a wink, ‘I’ll have you know that the time off (if not the beverage) has been willingly sanctioned by Matron, as thanks for our staying over Christmas and providing much-needed help on the wards. I thought best not to destroy her notion of our selflessness by informing her that neither of us particularly fancied going home for this season. So, gin and giggles long past curfew? If it makes you cry again, I won’t mind – you know I’m here for you for anything.’_

_Choked with disbelief at her friend’s compassion, Patsy covered up with customary humour. ‘Delia Busby, you dark horse.’  
_


	2. February - The Intrigue of Ivy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buoyed by the success of the gin episode, Pats and Deels resolve to spend the rest of the year making their way through seasonal flora appropriate to particular aspects of their relationship. February, of course, brings with it Valentine’s Day – but not the traditional roses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, huge thanks for the generous welcome back (and the lovely comments), on the first chapter of this idiosyncratic endeavour of mine. It means more than my pretentiously over-written words can describe, and I feel so lucky to be part of this truly wonderful community. Hopefully I can do justice to your expectations! Secondly, I think I should note two things before we get too much further along this journey:
> 
> 1) Although I have quite a comprehensive experience of medicine, hospitals and the treatment of various conditions from a patient’s perspective (the joys of disability life!), I am most definitely not a medical professional. Furthermore, I have only known people with Vascular Cognitive Impairment* either in the very early stages or closer to the ends of their lives. So my knowledge of the middle section is limited to the research I’ve done for this fic. Hopefully the progression feels realistic, but please, if you have expertise in this area and spot any glaring inaccuracies, call me out.
> 
> 2) I won’t be spelling out every stage of the progression. As each chapter focuses on a single moment from each month of the year, there will be changes that occur between them, I suppose like episodes of a series. These changes will be addressed, of course – it’s just that with this particular diagnosis there isn’t such a gradual sense of alteration and I wanted my writing to mirror that. Equally, whilst the modern sections conform to chronological order, this isn’t necessarily the case with the flashbacks (although it sometimes is). The flashbacks are simply various points in their history which happen to have occurred in the month the chapter centres on. (For instance, in one they may have been together for ages, but in the next they may just be testing things out. I hope that makes sense – let me know if it gets confusing, and thanks for sticking with it!)
> 
> *VCI is the preferred term now – Pats and Deels use ‘Vascular Dementia’ because they trained a while ago!

Although Patsy Busby-Mount had never liked the full length of her first name, she had always tried to do its corresponding virtue justice, no matter the situation in which she might find herself. That was why she was now sitting, silently and with what she hoped was a serene expression on her face, and allowing her wife to brush out her hair; every interminably long lock of it. She didn’t strictly need the help just yet, but that was precisely the point. They had decided (or, more accurately, she had agreed) to phase in aspects of her care earlier than it was required, to make the transition easier to bear.

This was partly based in current medical and pastoral advice, but mostly came from Delia’s recollections of her accident. Apparently, the most frightening aspect of its immediate aftermath had not been so much the amnesia as the abrupt loss of autonomy that arrived with it, and the resultant responses of the hospital staff with whom she had only recently interacted as colleagues. At the time, of course, she had been unable to articulate the nuances of these feelings, but she was nevertheless filled with the unshakeable sense that she was on the wrong side of the practitioner-patient dynamic. She therefore knew, probably better than Patsy herself, that her pensive and particular wife would be completely floored by a similarly sudden shift in circumstances. The initial period after her retirement had been difficult enough, even with the prospect of having more time to devote to their charity, The Grace Mount Memorial Foundation (named for Patsy’s dear sister and set up to support those dealing with childhood bereavement, at whatever age they might need help). The uncertainty before them now was of a far greater magnitude than the end of either of their careers, and Delia wanted to smooth their way as much as was realistically possible.

For all her stubborn desire to retain independence, Patsy could not dismiss the sensibility in this proposed strategy – far better to relinquish tasks willingly, at her own pace, than to have everything stolen away out of necessity. So, here she sat, determinedly docile aside from the slight clench of her jaw when the brush snagged an especially tough tangle. Delia caught the surreptitious wince in the mirror of their shared dressing-table, and gave a guilty grimace in return. ‘Sorry, _cariad_ , it’s hard brushing someone else’s hair – even when that someone else is you, it seems. Emily has told me often enough how frustrating it is to have it done; that’s why she cut hers off as soon as she could convince her Mam!’

Patsy brightened at the mention of their young friend, and then sobered slightly. She supposed they would have to break the news of this change at some point. It was a talk she would not relish having. Although she was sure Em would respond to the development with her characteristic compassion, and have concern only for her ‘dear Pats and Deels’, Patsy felt personally bound to protect her from distress – however futile she knew that aim to be. They were so alike, and had formed such a connection, that to tell Emily of her condition seemed tantamount to inflicting grief upon her younger self; and they both had had more than enough of that emotion. At some point, perhaps, once the inevitable first torrents of tears had passed, Em might proffer some useful, wry, advice on resignation to others’ assistance. Her Cerebral Palsy meant that she was far more experienced in that regard, despite her comparative youth.

For now, though, she provided help via another form of precedent. Patsy met Delia’s eyes in the mirror, as she put on a meek expression. ‘Deels?’

‘Mmm?’ Her wife’s reply was muffled by her tongue being stuck out in concentration. Good – it would take her a moment to register the intent of the next question.

‘Maybe _I_ should get my hair cut?’

Clearly Patsy had miscalculated her level of distraction, because Delia was instantly alert. ‘Over my dead body!’ she exclaimed, before clapping her free hand over her mouth, as she realised which words she had used. When Patsy said nothing, but simply smirked at the reflection of the aghast face behind her, Delia couldn’t cope with the silence. ‘I didn’t mean – ’

Patsy took the opportunity to return some of the support her wife had offered over the past month. ‘It’s fine, Deels – at long last, you’ve cottoned on to the catharsis behind my black humour around grief and death, and I’m thrilled. It’s vastly preferable to the tiptoeing you used to do,’ she said, her lopsided smile proof that she really didn’t mind.

‘But it wasn’t deliberate!’ Delia protested, still uneasy despite the reassurance.

‘Even better. That means it’s becoming natural, which is exactly what we want it to be. It’s all very well to discuss the importance of easing _me_ gently into this new life phase, but you’ll need time to adjust too, and that’s perfectly understandable. The ability to laugh about the situation is an extremely important skill to hone, as is communication in general. You taught me that last bit, so now I’m doing my best to repay the favour, whilst I’m still lucid enough to impart the wisdom of my woes.’ As she finished the final sentence, Patsy gave a melodramatic sigh, before winking exaggeratedly at her beloved.

This only increased Delia’s exasperation, yet she couldn’t help smiling as she delivered one further rebuke. ‘You are incorrigible, and trying my patience, Patience.’

‘I think you’ll find it’s pronounced “irresistible”, and I’m _trying_ to make you laugh. On that note, it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow. As an apology for refusing to let you mark my birthday at the end of last month (because I still feel absolutely awful about that and sincerely hope it will be the one and only aggressive outburst of mine that we – you –will have to endure) I’d like to suggest a plan. I know we haven’t really done anything for it since training, but we probably should this year. Last chances, and all,’ she murmured, hoping Delia wouldn’t notice the end.

As ever, Delia did notice, but elected not to comment; as ever, Patsy knew she had done both of those things, and was grateful. Talking was fine, and necessary up to a point, but not all of the important topics needed to be broached at once. So, instead, Delia answered Patsy’s suggestion with a nod, a smile and a simple query. ‘Of course. What were you thinking, _cariad_?’

Patsy took a deep breath, and Delia braced herself. ‘Well,’ Patsy began slowly, ‘I was actually rather serious about my hair. I don’t want you to have to fuss about it on top of everything else my brain and body might foist on you. Who knows, you might even be pushing me around in a wheelchair; I wouldn’t be allowed a fancy electric-powered one like Em’s, it wouldn’t be safe –’ She paused, struck by a seemingly awful thought. ‘Deels, how would we get upstairs?’

‘There is a lift, we’ve just both resolutely refused to use it. You thought it was sensible for our “later years”. We didn’t move to Chelsea for nothing, _cariad_.’

Patsy was satisfied. ‘Good. Em can visit, then, if I’m having bad days. I know I said it wouldn’t be professional to have her over here, even now she’s a Youth Ambassador rather than a participant at the Foundation, but I’ll miss our catch ups.’

Delia nodded, noting the slight waver in Patsy’s voice as she spoke, and wondering if it was a sign of an oncoming episode, or merely (merely!) emotion. Resolving to monitor it before mentioning anything, she continued the conversation. ‘Anyway, tomorrow. Your hair. There, I’m not entirely averse to it, but I’ll need a more detailed proposal.’

Patsy grinned, ‘Well, I know how attached you are to it – almost as much as I am to yours! – but therein lies the solution. Or so _I_ believe, at least. You’ve kept yours long for me, I’ve kept mine long for you. If we get it chopped off together, it won’t feel so unequal, and it might even be fun. We can always ask for a lock or two of each to bring home; we could plait them together, then, and they can hold each other up – like ivy.’

At that, Delia nearly dropped the brush. ‘Ivy, Pats?’ She held her breath to conceal the desperate hope that this was more than just a coincidental choice of plant metaphor.

Patsy’s face was solemn, but her eyes still sparkled, and she nodded firmly. ‘Ivy. Infinitely, intimately, and irrevocably entwined. _Caru ti, cariad_.’

~

_Delia Busby woke on the morning of 14 th February 1959 with the distinct sense that she had never been so excited in her (admittedly rather brief) life. Not only was it one of her rare Saturdays off, it just happened to be Valentine’s Day, and she would be spending it with her girlfriend, Patsy. Girlfriend! She didn’t think she would ever get over the novelty of using that word to describe the woman she loved more than anything else in the world. _

_Somehow, for the almost year that they had been “going together”, it had felt even more special for the fact that it had to be just between them – but she wondered how long that aspect would last. Even now, at times, still living at the Nurses’ Home, she found herself chafing, not so much against the restrictions, but the hypocrisy. Whilst the rules (rigidly enforced during training and implicitly carried over now they were staff) nominally applied to all relationships regardless of gender, in reality the girls with “chaps” were treated with a leniency that verged on benevolence. Delia considered this all the more ridiculously infuriating for the fact that the response to a love like theirs would be precisely the opposite; harsh, and utterly damning to both of their burgeoning careers._

_Still, however much she wished to shout her adoration at the top of her lungs (and to rail just as loudly that she could not), it would not do to ruin the prospect of a delightful day by moping about in bed. She had never been particularly fussed about Valentine’s Day or any of its associated customs, for once aligning herself with her Mam’s belief that it was an overly-commercialised event, but she was beginning to think that might just have been a convenient way to quash her consternation at having no-one with whom to share it. Now she did, and all those Busby maxims about extravagance and economy had no hope of staunching her giddy glee. Nor would she want them to, she thought firmly, at last revitalised enough to stumble out of bed for a speedy wash and dress._

_“Speedy” being the operative word – the plumbing in the ramshackle building they currently called home left much to be desired, as did the temperature. The forecasts promised a warmer spell relatively soon, but this had yet to appear, and she wasn’t taking any chances today. They had had to postpone several dates already this year, either due to sickness or unexpected shift changes, and she didn’t want to add another to the tally. Consequently, buoyed by shivers resulting from a heady combination of cold and anticipation, she succeeded in circumventing her characteristic clumsiness and donned her chosen outfit – a light green tea-dress paired with a yellow cardigan which hopefully_ didn’t _cause her to resemble a buttercup – in just fifteen minutes. Patsy would think it hilarious that she considered this something of a record, but then the older woman did have the enviable ability of being stunning without any effort._

_So much so that she could easily be at their meeting place by now. Indeed, knowing Patsy as well as Delia quietly flattered herself she did, she had probably been there for quite some time already. Not wanting to extend her girlfriend’s anxiety for any longer than necessary, Delia locked the door to her room, with a final glance at her reflection to check that her lipstick hadn’t smudged (because although that might happen later, it would have a very deliberate cause!). Heading along the (delightfully deserted) corridor, she permitted herself the luxury of a slight skip. It had to be slight for two reasons: in case Matron suddenly rounded the corner, of course, but more practically because Delia didn’t fully trust herself not to fall. That would be a disaster; she had promised Patsy she would be on time. Having made it to the back door without incident, she nevertheless took a moment to breathe. She needed to prepare herself for the sight of Patsy; however quiet the accommodation might seem, they were far from alone in the grounds, and she would be foolish to scupper their secret with a squeal before the day had even started. Only once satisfied that she had sufficiently steeled herself did she exit the building – yet even this concerted attempt at nonchalance could not disguise the lightness of her heart when they first locked eyes._

_As expected, Patsy had not just arrived early but had done so even after dressing immaculately (in a loose-fitting navy blue shirt, which set off both the lighter blue hue of her eyes and the striking gold sheen of her hair, and a pair of artfully cut slacks). For all the calm confidence exuding from her clothing choices, though, Delia knew from the briefest of glances that the woman before her was anything but relaxed. She knew the reason, too; Patsy had been planning this from the very moment the rota had been confirmed and would want everything to proceed perfectly. The appropriate response would therefore be what Delia had taken affectionately (secretly) to calling “Project Placate Pats” – conversing ostensibly normally whilst covertly easing tension through gentle touch and a few well-placed words. She consequently began to speak, taking Patsy’s hand as she did so. ‘_ Helo _,_ cariad _,’ she said, aware that the Welsh phrase would signal that there was no need to talk just yet, if forming coherent sentences in their shared tongue of English proved too difficult. Delia had discovered not that long ago that Patsy’s cut-glass accent, far from being innate, was yet another layer of her complexly-crafted persona. Of course her parents had spoken similarly, but the time she spent with them had been limited by business and practicality long before the enforced estrangement of the camps, and she reverted to the Mandarin of her earliest years in Shanghai whenever she could. Perhaps that was why they had originally been so drawn to each other; an implicit intuition of their shared sense of separation from the culture of the rest of their cohort._

_These lofty sentiments were squashed as soon as their hands made contact, however, because Delia was horrified by the temperature of her beloved’s skin and the realisation that she was shivering. ‘Oh, Pats – you’re icy cold! Why ever did you suggest we meet out here!? You could have come to my room and we would have left together!’_

_Patsy merely pointed at the side of the building. Delia followed the direction of her finger and her gaze rested on the copious amounts of ivy creeping across the cracked paintwork. At last, the older woman spoke, posing a single question. ‘What is that, Deels?’_

_Delia looked bewildered because, although Patsy’s tone suggested the enquiry was rhetorical, her subsequent silence seemed expectant. Uncertain, Delia filled the gap, and went into far more detail than was strictly necessary as she did so. ‘Ivy, Pats, and from the way it’s encroaching on every inch of the wall I’d hazard a guess that it has made the foundations structurally unsafe. They’ll likely pull it down in the not too distant future,’ she added solemnly, suddenly struck by the significance of all the memories housed here. As she drifted back to the present, she caught Patsy looking at her and blushed. ‘Sorry for lowering the tone,_ cariad _.’_

_Patsy smiled, shaking her head, as she responded. ‘No, you’re right – it is ivy, and it probably will have that effect one day – but I have a rather different perspective. True, many years ago, the coming together of these two entities might have seemed unexpected, even undesirable, to an outside observer. Now, though, they are utterly dependent on each other to survive, no, to continue to thrive. The building’s foundations might be weak, but I’d contend that they are stronger for the ivy’s presence, because it called attention to the vulnerability that was already there and offered support to tackle it. It didn’t point out the issues and scarper without a trace, it stayed, despite knowing that decision posed considerable threat to its own existence. It stuck around, even when faced with the certainty that, if the building collapsed, it would be left trailing its tendrils in the dust.’_

_Patsy paused for breath and, seeing that her eyes were shining with tears, Delia attempted to offer consolation. ‘Pats –’_

_Patsy raised a hand in gentle indication that she had not finished. ‘That’s us, Deels – infinitely, intimately, and irrevocably entwined. Especially at this time of year.’ Then, with the lopsided smile Delia had come to consider her trademark, ‘Now, on that note, I’d say such philosophising ought to be accompanied by some fish and chips, wouldn’t you? Who’s lowering the tone this time, eh?’_

_Delia nodded, giving her hand a quick squeeze. ‘On condition you’ll wear my cardi,_ cariad. _’ Upon receiving a sharp glance from Patsy, she grinned impishly. ‘I’m only being responsible ivy and protecting my beloved building’s foundations...’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this narrative framework is making sense – just let me know if clarification is needed. I tried to be especially gentle with this chapter, but here’s fair warning that things will get rougher from now on. Also, these are obviously my headcanon flashbacks, so feel free to argue with dates etc. (For instance, Patsy’s birthday, in my mind, is 29th January because I have this sense of her being excited about turning 29 on the 29th – during the lengthier holiday whilst the others were in South Africa – and Delia being all cute. That may end up as a one-shot at some point ;P!) Equally, if you want more info on my original character of Emily, and the charity - aside from the bits of this fic in which they'll both continue to feature, I'd direct you towards my 'A Marathon of Memories'. Huge thanks again for the lovely response to this new one so far, it’s been a real incentive to continue!


	3. March - Dafydd-Down-Dilly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March brings St David’s Day and daffodils (hence the pun in the title!) and memories of when a certain Welsh nurse took strength from her heritage to tell another yellow-headed beauty of her feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge apologies for the lateness of this update – due to a combination of a heavy workload and being away without wifi for a few days. It’s an extra long one, though, to make up for the wait. I’ll try and get the next one up for Thursday. Thank you so much, as always, for the lovely comments. I hope this continues to do your expectations (and Pats and Deels) justice. Fair warning, the modern bit is a tad tricky, but there’s hopefully sufficient fluff in the flashback.

‘Where am I!? Deels!?’

‘It’s all right, Pats, I’m coming!’ Upon hearing the panicked shouts of her wife, Delia responded in what she hoped was a reassuring manner, and then rushed from the kitchen into their shared bedroom as fast as was possible without upsetting the cup of tea she had only recently retreated down the corridor to make. Once she had placed the hot receptacle on the rather less precarious platform of Patsy’s bedside table, Delia perched gently on a corner of the queen-size mattress and placed a calming hand on the vague outline of a slender knee. Glancing towards the head of the bed, her heart was pierced by the wild look in that most beautiful pair of blue eyes; a look she had thought long since dissolved, but which had returned with a vengeance over the last three months. She did not comment, of course, but smiled brightly, swallowing her sadness as if it weighed little more than the wisps of steam rising from the cup that had caused all this anxiety in the first place.

Ever perceptive, even in a muddled state, Patsy noted the gap between her wife’s expression and the lack of light in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Deels, I –’ She paused for a moment, engaged in a wordless debate about how to put the end of the sentence, before opting for honesty. ‘I got scared. The flat – it seemed different, somehow. Is everything all right? Were you busy?’

Her openness was rewarded, because the smile Delia gave this time was genuine. ‘No, Pats, I wasn’t – not unless you count me making you tea. I thought you might need it now. You had another episode, love, so it was safer for both of us if I got you into bed.’

Delia had intended to sweep past that particular element and continue speaking, but was prevented from being blasé (yet again) by Patsy’s keen attention to detail – and horrified question. ‘Did I hit you!?’

‘No, _cariad_ , nothing like that; so don’t add it to your list of things to feel guilty about, okay? You didn’t even try – not that I would’ve let you if you did.’ Delia broke off, as Patsy chuckled ruefully, before raising a hand in apology to let her continue. ‘You were extremely confused, rather wobbly, and I didn’t want you to fall. You’re an impatient enough patient as it is. That’s why I waited until you had drifted off to sleep to nip down the corridor to make tea; I knew you wouldn’t let me leave otherwise.’

She didn’t add that she stayed because she was becoming increasingly concerned that Patsy might get her wish following the diagnosis – and actually have a stroke. Getting on with life whilst maintaining an awareness of the background changes occurring in her wife’s neurology might seem simple and sensible enough, especially as there was nothing more to be done at this point. However much she had grown accustomed to the lapses in language or sudden shifts in temper, though, she didn’t think anything would adequately acclimatise either of them to the frank fact that these symptoms signalled the deterioration of Patsy’s dearest (and most formidable) organ. Every time she caught sight of her wife’s recently shorn (and, she would begrudgingly admit, rather cute) hair, she could not stop surmising about what was going on beneath it. Still, it certainly would not help matters if she exclaimed – as part of her wanted to – ‘Oh, Pats, your brilliant brain!’ So there was naught for it but to keep on keeping on; and she could start by anchoring herself firmly in the present. Taking a slight, secret, breath, she met Patsy’s searching gaze with one of her own, and morphed from worried wife to nurturing nurse. ‘Talking of tea, it’s probably cool enough to drink now. Have a sip for me?’

Patsy raised an eyebrow. ‘Deels –’

‘Tea. Sip. Now.’

‘Delia. I can spot deflection from miles off; it’s an effect of being so well-versed in it myself. I’ll drink, you talk.’

Delia grimaced, blushing under her wife’s scrutiny. ‘But Pats, you’re under enough strain as it is, I don’t want you worrying about me as well. I thought I made that clear earlier.’   

Patsy took the promised sip before replying, partly to fulfil her side of the bargain, but mostly in order to mull over what to say. She had to choose her words cautiously, and not merely due to the state of her mind – for she would likely be called a hypocrite if anything but the most carefully-crafted phrase came out of her mouth next. Eventually, she had it. ‘You’ve also told me (many times) that that is _not_ how it works, love. Share and share alike; otherwise anxiety is only intensified by guessing-games and being unsure how to help. As for strain, I forget half of it – half of anything! – and, whilst that’s frustrating, frankly it makes it easier to bear on my part. There’s little point agonising over things I can’t remember and, although sometimes I can’t help it, I’m far more preoccupied by the effect it must be having on you. So, spill. Actually, come and cuddle up next to me; conversations are always easier when we’re close.’

Delia did as asked, on both counts, and felt lighter just for the increased physical contact. A _cwtch_ with her _cariad_ was the best tonic of all. Nevertheless, these feelings would persist, and she knew she had to get them out. ‘I’m so scared,’ she started, having shucked off her slippers and snuggled under the duvet. ‘In January you said you wanted to have a stroke and get it over with –’

She stopped, her voice shaking, and Patsy swore inwardly. Outwardly this translated to a more measured self-chastisement. ‘Curse me and my big mouth,’ she said, taking Delia’s hand in hers and twining their fingers tenderly as if tethering them together. ‘I was angry and should have thought before I spoke.’

‘To be fair to you, _cariad_ , you normally do; and at the time I was rather impressed that you could be so frank. It’s only since then that I’ve been so bothered by the possibility that you were prophesying. I know this _thing_ , your condition, is essentially a whole lot of little ones – but, well, I’d much prefer to have you with me for longer, like this, than for you to leave so suddenly.’ She paused again, then, rushing, forced out the fearful thought. ‘Pats – oh, Pats! – I don’t want you to die.’

Enveloping her wife in a hug, Patsy said nothing, trusting neither language nor emotion to rise to the occasion. How could she adequately articulate everything that was triggered by Delia’s utterance of those six simple, yet stark, words? How could she begin to convey that, before she was even a teenager, her sole concern regarding her own mortality had been in relation to the impact it would have on other people? Only too aware of the pain of grief, it was almost more than she could bear to know that her loss would one day inflict that same sorrow on others. Of that much she had long been certain – as everyone was, she supposed, though not many spoke of it. She would die. It was just a question of when, and taking every feasible course of action to delay the inevitable. God, that seemed morbid, even by her own standards (and safe in the secret recesses of her mind); but it was true. Not that she spent every minute of every day thinking about it, by any means. No, more that it had been her constant companion since childhood, an unconscious undercurrent of each of her many interactions with fellow humans, necessitated first by boarding school and then her chosen career. Yet, as she pondered it now, she could only surmise that it had been, if not positive, then provocative. For, whilst she could easily have slumped into sadness (and goodness knows there had been multiple instances throughout life when she had done just that), the darkness and despair had somehow made the growing glimmers of light, laughter and love all the more sincere, and sincerely sought after.

It was that reminder she used to refocus herself now, and as fuel for an answer to Delia’s declaration. If she could not bring herself to lie (because, aside from anything else, she knew Delia would prickle at empty platitudes) she could at least offer a form of optimism. ‘I know – but I’m here now, Deels, and I promise I’m not going anywhere fast. Except to get out of this bed,’ she added wryly.

‘Not a chance; you need to rest!’

Patsy chuckled at Delia’s immediate defence, and gently loosened the grip of the fingers which had instinctively tightened in her own. ‘Deels. I’m forgetful and a little wobbly. I’m not an invalid.’

‘I know, _cariad_ , you’re perfectly valid.’ Delia giggled (albeit reluctantly) at the reference to their shared jokes about the negative implications of certain types of language in their profession, and then sighed. ‘It’s just –’

She was cut off by the slight shake of Patsy’s head. ‘It’s just, it’s St David’s Day, and I have a daffodil to deliver.’

Delia could not keep the surprise from her face. For all she knew it was their tradition, and whatever hidden hope she might have harboured, she had surrendered to the strong possibility it would not happen this year. ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’

‘Wisdom doesn’t come into it. Dementia be damned, Deels, I’m not letting us miss out on this. You said yourself, after January’s gin, we should use flowers as a tool for memory retention, and what better example than everything we associated with daffodils? I know we don’t properly count our anniversaries prior to moving out from Nonnatus at the beginning of 1963, so tell everyone we’ve been together for just over fifty years, but technically today marks fifty- _nine_ years since you kissed me.’

Delia gave an affectionately derisive snort. ‘As I recall, you returned the favour with far more finesse than my clumsy mouth could ever have hoped to attain. I was not blessed with your boarding school expertise,’ she finished archly.

‘Ha! You know full well that we were as green as each other that day – my “issues with intimacy”, to use my therapist’s phrase, had made sure of that. Sure, I kissed you back, and have continued to do so, thoroughly enjoying myself along the way. In fact, I’d very much like to abandon all these attempts at “constructive communication” (another therapeutic term, I believe) entirely, and show you what happens to young misses who disrespect their elders in such a brazen manner. Nevertheless, I’m onto your ruse, Delia – and I refuse to be dissuaded from my point. Fifty-nine years ago, there was an event which may be described in your language as _cusan_ , whoever started it. I’m likely not to be around for its sixtieth anniversary, which seems decidedly unfair after all we’ve lived through to get there (in spite of the fact that you wouldn’t let me shower you with the associated diamonds even if I _were_ to be with you). Consequently, I consider it an obligation to make the most of today, and I promise you that I’m in perfect command of my faculties as I make that statement. Please, Deels; I’m even dressed already, and respectably, save for a few creases.’

Patsy had expected Delia to laugh at this comment, but instead she responded with a curious, almost wistful, glance and a tentative question. ‘You remember the word?’

‘Of course. You’ve used it often enough since then, and given me ample explanations of its meaning.’ Patsy feigned nonchalance but was betrayed, as usual, by the teasing light in her eyes.

‘Well, then, I suppose I have no choice but to agree. I never could resist you speaking Welsh. One condition, though...’

Patsy barely raised an eyebrow, opting for meekness in place of her habitual sarcasm. ‘Yes, _cariad_?’

Delia huffed, knowing that the argument had been lost long ago, but determined to use the single, sensible card remaining in her hand. ‘I’ll go get your wheelchair.’

Patsy paused, allowing the idea and all potential replies to percolate like her favourite kind of coffee. Then she thought what an apt metaphor this was, because a sanctioned trip out, no matter her method of transportation, would likely mean she could get some. Tea was all well and good, but too strongly-associated with sickness and “getting her strength back”. So, to Delia’s surprise and delight, she did not protest. However her words did serve further to confirm her capability to turn any situation (at least any involving Delia) to her distinct advantage. ‘ _Diolch yn fawr iawn_ , _ma petite femme Galloise_ ,’ she said softly, aware that the artful combination of Welsh and French was certain to collapse the last of her wife’s resolve. ‘Thank you very much, my little Welshwoman. You’ll get a daffodil for that.’

~

_As she stood in the corridor of the Nurses’ Home, outside Delia Busby’s door, Patsy Mount was nervous. Not fearful, because Delia’s delightfully disarming nature rendered such emotions impossible in her vicinity, but nervous. For it was Saturday 1 st March 1958, and consequently St David’s Day, an incredibly important marker for the fierce pride her friend held in her Welsh homeland and heritage. It was also, Patsy knew from their shared moans about the rota, the day after a particularly gruelling night shift. She therefore had plans to make it as nice as possible, albeit gently, given Delia’s likely desire for little more than a good rest. Very early on in their acquaintance Delia had informed Patsy that, were she ever to miss celebrating St David’s Day due to their schedule, she could not be held responsible for her actions – nor, for that matter, for her mother’s. ‘My Mam is very particular,’ she had said and, even years later, after their eventual introduction, Patsy had struggled to fathom how Delia had used such a calm and innocuous description for the imposing woman her own sense of propriety still demanded she refer to as “Mrs Busby”, however many times they all insisted on Enid._

_So, Patsy also being particular, she was now discharging the duty bestowed on her as Delia’s best friend – or at least she would be if she could convert her nervousness into some constructive communication. Eventually summoning up courage, she called out in a loud whisper. ‘Deels, are you awake? It’s me, Pats; I’ve brought you some malted milk.’_

_The reply came almost instantly. ‘_ Of course _I’m awake, Pats, don’t you know what today is? Come in,’_

_Patsy felt her courage beginning to founder. ‘I – I can’t,’ she stammered, unsure what to say without ruining her surprise. ‘I can’t open the door.’_

_‘Why ever not, you silly goose?’ Then, after a brief bustle, the door opened to reveal Delia, with concern etched on her face. ‘Is everything all right?’_

_Patsy nodded, fighting to stop the grin that was forming unbidden at the corners of her mouth. ‘Everything’s fine, it’s just – well, may I come in?’_

_Delia was perplexed, but stood aside to let Patsy pass. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of yellow peeking out from the palm of the older woman’s other hand. Once the door had shut behind them both, she could curb her curiosity no longer. ‘Patience Elizabeth Mount. What on earth do you have hidden behind your back, you sly thing?’_

_Trust Delia to spoil a perfect surprise by not only spotting it before she was ready but then having the impertinence to use her full name – but without that, Delia wouldn’t be Delia. Rolling her eyes, but smiling as she did so, Patsy inched her arm back out in front of her body, bringing with it a bunch of daffodils. ‘These,’ she said shyly. ‘It’s not the picnic I organised last year, I know, but they are my personal prescription for the heartache brought on by homesickness, which I imagine is particularly intense today. Goodness, that was far more difficult a sentence to say than I had thought it would be. You’ve probably got a single Welsh word for what I’m trying to convey.’_

_‘_ Hiraeth _,’ Delia’s voice sounded strange to her own ears – she hoped Patsy wouldn’t pick up on the emotion. ‘There isn’t really a direct translation, but it’s vaguely similar to “longing”. That isn’t the word I’d use right now, though._ Diolch _, Pats.’_

_‘I think I know what that one means – you’ve used it before. Thank you?’_

_Delia nodded. ‘_ Diolch yn fawr iawn _. Thank you very much.’_

_Patsy grinned unreservedly this time. ‘I like learning your language – each new word makes me feel I’m slightly closer to understanding you, and the country you call home.’_

_Delia smiled back, before taking the flowers and placing them reverently in the sink, which she then filled with water. ‘A purely temporary measure,’ she reassured Patsy, coming back to stand facing her friend and squeezing her hand in further thanks. ‘I don’t like to admit this, but I’m too short to reach the vase on top of my wardrobe.’_

_Patsy laughed. ‘I could get it down for you. I seem to remember I put it up there in the first place.’_

_She made to move away, but Delia grasped her hand a little tighter as a signal to stop. ‘In a minute,’ she said, rushing her words to keep up with her desire to explain. ‘I agree with what you said. Languages do have that effect. Perhaps,’ she paused, barely able to believe her boldness, ‘perhaps you’d teach me some Mandarin one day?’_

_Patsy stiffened slightly, but kept their hands clasped. Even so, she could not conceal the sadness in her eyes as she echoed Delia’s use of the conditional. ‘Perhaps.’ Then, brightening, ‘Today is_ your _day, though, and I think that entails the role of teacher to you, and designates Welsh as the language of special significance. I know you’ve taught me some expressions already, but those were principally related to the social requirements of our conversation, and therefore pretty self-explanatory – don’t you think? Teach me another phrase, or word, even.’ When Delia remained still and quiet, she continued, hoping to coax her friend out of her unusual reticence by way of an affectionate nickname. ‘Come on, Miss Chatterbox, surely there’s_ something _you want to say to me?’_

 _Delia smiled in spite of her shyness, but then met Patsy’s eyes, and felt the betrayal of a blush creeping around her cheeks. ‘_ Caru ti _,’ she mumbled, knowing she was only prolonging her embarrassment by making the words barely audible._

_‘What?’ Patsy’s voice had dropped to the same volume, which was somehow the greatest comforted she could have offered._

_‘_ Caru ti _. It’s the informal Welsh for, well...’ She trailed off again, unable to force the end of the sentence. Yet she was acutely aware that, should she not take this opportunity, a future one might never present itself. So, eventually..._

_‘I love you.’_

_Both women stared for a moment, shocked into silence by the unexpected serendipity of their unison speech, before breaking out into similarly simultaneous giggles._

_Then, once they had recovered, Delia found her courage was restored, too. ‘That was easy in the end,’ she said, too giddy to care that she was stating the obvious. ‘I had wondered – and worried – for so long how I was going to do it, and had so much anxiety about how you might respond, that when the moment arrived I found I had twisted my tongue in knots. Now I know you feel the same way, though, I have absolutely no doubt about the phrase I want to teach you next.’_

_Relieved that Delia was talking again, since she was entirely incapable of forming words herself, Patsy’s smile grew wider (if that was possible) as she attempted to utter at least a noise of encouragement. ‘Mmm?’_

_‘_ Cusan _.’_

 _Patsy nodded although, if truth be told, she was hardly registering the meaning of sentences in any language at this point; even ones as short as that. Nevertheless, she repeated the phrase (thinking as she did that it sounded nearly onomatopoeic, though she wasn’t sure why, of course). Too bewildered by delight to do anything other than embody her namesake virtue, she waited patiently for Delia to provide the definition – when suddenly, in place of hearing words, she_ felt _a pair of lips against her own. The resultant elation told her exactly what it meant, and she opened her mouth to smile again. Such a movement, naturally, allowed Delia to deepen the kiss, and Patsy found herself gasping in pleasure._

_Delia drew back immediately at the noise, and Patsy saw concern and doubt furrowing what she could now freely call “her beautiful brow”. ‘Sorry, Pats, was that all right? I should have asked first.’_

_Despite her gratitude for the depth of the younger woman’s understanding, Patsy forced herself not to giggle at the overly-attentive question, and merely brought their noses together in a comforting gesture. ‘It was glorious, Deels._ Diolch yn fawr iawn, ma petite femme Galloise _.’ Delia’s delight at the Welsh mingled with visible confusion at the sudden change in language, so Patsy obliged her with a translation. ‘Thank you very much, my little Welshwoman.’ She paused, wondering if it would be presumptuous at this point to mention that_ “femme” _was the word not just for “woman” but for “wife”. Deciding against it, she instead continued on a slightly different subject. ‘I might not be able to give you Mandarin just yet, but I can at least offer French. That is, if it doesn’t make you feel like you’re back at school.’ This time it was Delia’s turn to giggle, as she shook her head. Patsy nodded in approval, before whispering in English once again. ‘Mandarin soon, I promise, Deels. For now, though, come here.’  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this flashback feels realistic. I was super nervous writing it, since my only kiss thus far has been a stage-kiss, i.e. in a play, so without any of the usually-associated emotions. (That is incredibly embarrassing to admit, even online, but I thought it was necessary to explain in case any of this seems overly-tentative... basically I am as green as they both were in 1958.)


	4. April - Caution (or not) and a Crocus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As April arrives, Patsy needs help with clothes and dressing, and some things happen...
> 
> Rating upped to Mature, for (eventual) nudity, innuendo and some swearing, just in case. None of this is too scandalous, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This chapter both took me further into my comfort zone, in terms of lengthy descriptions of things not usually featured in literature, and way out of it (in terms of everything else!). I nearly scrapped it entirely, was persuaded by Echo7 and Catching Up not to, but then had another crisis of confidence yesterday (hence the late update – and the change in username!). Hopefully it’s okay...

‘Pats, love, is it all right if we start heading back now?’ Delia left the question hanging in the early April air, observing that her breath was visible as she spoke, and thus must be slightly warmer than the outside temperature. Their evening walks (or ‘wheels’ now, she supposed, in Patsy’s case) had been getting later and later, in line with the steadily lengthening days and a mutual desire to make the most of each moment they were granted, in every way. Not that they went far, of course, but shared strolls beneath the spectacle of the London skyline at night were still among their most precious pastimes – however much both they and the skyline might have changed in the intervening decades since they had first ‘walked out’. Nevertheless, the delayed descent of dusk could be deceptive, and Delia knew that incremental (and seemingly insignificant) drops in temperature would suddenly spring a more serious chill upon them; the potential consequences of which she actively wished to avoid. So, having received no response to her first, deliberately tentative, query, she tried again with some more specific phrasing. ‘It’s getting colder, _cariad_ – don’t you think we should head back?’

Bluntness proved successful in provoking a reply from Patsy, although possibly not the one for which her wife had been hoping. ‘Goodness, Deels, I can cope with a breeze – I’m not about to be blown over in this contraption, am I?’

As much as Delia wanted to be irritated, she found herself revelling in the sensitive sarcasm of Patsy’s comment. These days, it didn’t surface nearly as often as it ought, and it was a relief to know it remained prevalent in her personality. Chuckling, Delia placed a conciliatory hand on a shoulder which, due to Patsy’s seated position, was for once lower than her own; a novelty neither felt especially eager to embrace. ‘I know, love, I’m sorry. I’m only worried you aren’t wearing enough layers.’

Patsy joined in the chuckle with a throaty one of her own. ‘I rather think I’m wearing too many – not least because of the hassle involved in taking them off nowadays. _I’m_ sorry, though, Deels. It’s unfair of me to push you to stay out. I’m all too conscious of how long everything takes and I know we need to be in bed at a reasonable time so, if you’re tired, of course we can start back. It’s just – well, nights like these make me feel young again.’

Delia squeezed the shoulder on which her hand still lay before bringing it back up to the handlebar of Patsy’s wheelchair. Even after all this time (and all those therapy sessions) it would seem that her wife’s insecurities about their relative worth and the amount of space she was allowed to take up in their relationship still sat startlingly close to the surface. Given their current circumstances, this was both self-destructive and desperately sad, and simply would not do. Time for some damage control. ‘No, Pats, I’m not tired. Far from it; like you, I never feel more awake than I do on nights like these. And for the record, _cariad_ , I don’t mind in the least how long things take or how many layers you have on. It gives me more excuses to touch you,’ she ended softly.

‘You want to touch me?’

Delia’s heart ached as she heard the sincere surprise in her wife’s voice. ‘Why do you suppose I refused to let anyone else take over your care, despite myriad attempts to persuade me? I want to touch you always, but especially tonight, and not just like this,’ she said, with another fleeting squeeze of a shoulder.

She sensed rather than saw Patsy’s eyebrow raise, then heard the small smile in her voice. ‘If this were another era in our lives, Delia Busby-Mount, I’d say you were propositioning me.’

Delia was long past the time, and age, for coquettishness, she knew, but she could not resist the allure of “playful Pats” and wanted to keep her around for a moment longer. After all, there was no predicting when she might next appear. ‘And what if I am, dear Patience?’ She let the question hang once more, anticipating the grunt of annoyance which would undoubtedly follow her use of Patsy’s full name. When none was forthcoming, she listened closely, and discovered that Patsy seemed to be waiting too, as she was holding her breath. Interesting. ‘Why not _this_ era of our lives? Why _not_ tonight?’ Then, since she had already gone in this far and might as well dive the whole depth, ‘We haven’t since Christmas –’ A pause for breath and bravery. ‘Before all this –’ Another. ‘I miss you.’

Patsy was silent for a while and Delia cursed herself for being so candid. When her wife eventually spoke, however, the pain harboured in her words had an entirely different source to the one she might have supposed. ‘I thought you wouldn’t want me.’ Delia heard the catch in Patsy’s voice and wished she could see her face, though she could hazard a pretty good guess about the expression she would find on it if she did. Nevertheless, she held back her instinctive response of comfort and denial, determined to let Patsy speak her fill. This was obviously something she needed to say, if she had the courage to broach it publicly, albeit in a deserted side street. ‘I mean, I’m not really _me_ , am I? I couldn’t bear for you to have the memory of me like this, a shadow whose shell of a body barely merits that name any more. I was battered before, but now I’ve transformed from Patience into a patient, and there’s definitely no room for Pats. Dementia isn’t exactly the dictionary definition of desirability, Deels, I get it.’

Delia found herself tickled again by Patsy’s humour, in spite of the tough topic. ‘That wry wit is perfectly Pats,’ she said, relieved that their position enabled her to hide the sadness in her smile. ‘You _don’t_ get it, though, love. I want _you_ to have the memory of how marvellous you are – and the longer we leave it, the less likely it is to stick. Where’s my feisty firebrand, eh, ready to throw caution to the wind and tell both your brain and body where to shove their interference?’ She paused, casting her eyes around the darkness of the dainty neighbourhood gardens for inspiration, and found it in the silhouette of a clump of colourful flowers. ‘Look at those crocuses –’

She was cut off by a single word from Patsy, who had followed her gaze. ‘Croci.’

Delia snorted. ‘I think you’ll find both are correct, _cariad_ , but I am very pleased to note the return of “pedantic Pats”. You’re really spoiling me tonight; which is why I’m pointing them out. If there were ever a more reckless genus of plant, I haven’t found it myself. Those ones over there are slightly more sedate, it being April, but you told me once that they have a habit of paying no heed whatsoever to calendars, conventions or preconceptions about when they can or cannot be considered beautiful. They simply pop out when they want to, and have a great time, embracing the environment in which they find themselves. I suggest we take a leaf – or rather, petal – out of their book.’

‘Yes,’ came Patsy’s whispered reply.

‘Yes?’

‘Yes. I’ve missed you, too, Deels.’

~

As they went up to their flat via the lift some twenty minutes later, Delia couldn’t keep the smile (a genuine grin now) from her face. Not only had they made it back in record time, Patsy squealing with horror and delight as her chair careered over some of Chelsea’s copious cobbles, they had done so rejuvenated and ready to take on whatever the next few months might bring. For now, though, there was tonight.

‘I’ll just park you in the bedroom whilst I nip to the loo, all right, _cariad_?’ Her wife’s voice was so full of joy that Patsy’s response caught in her throat. When Delia came back, though, she could tell instantly that the enthusiasm was mostly on her side. Grateful, for once, that Patsy’s chair put them at eye level, she asked a further, far less rhetorical, question. ‘ _Cariad_ , is this okay? We won’t do anything if you don’t want to.’

‘Oh, I want to,’ emboldened by the close contact, Patsy’s voice was now low and lusty. ‘It’s just – my legs aren’t under my control, and I can barely move.’

Delia laughed softly. ‘I rather think that’s the point, Pats,’ she said, ghosting her fingers over her wife’s knee. ‘Seriously, though, sweetheart, helping you to stand is one of the most delicious moments of my day. There’s no-one to curb our closeness now and I relish the reminder of that. Still, if you’re bothered, we’ll get it over with quickly and leave your shoes until last for stability. Would that make it better?’

Patsy nodded. ‘ _Diolch_ , Deels.’

Delia danced inwardly. Welsh was always a good sign. Outwardly, she busied herself being the bossy brunette of their youth. ‘Right then, let’s push you closer to the bed. Brakes on and, slowly now, shuffle to the edge of your seat. Perfect. God, I’m so bloody proud of you, Pats. Was I this patient in rehab all those years ago, do you think?’

A small smirk. ‘I suspect not, somehow.’

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t make you laugh. Whilst you’re standing, I’ll whip down your trousers, okay?’

‘I’ll bet you said that to all the girls, once upon a time.’

‘I’d watch your slanderous tongue if I were you, you’re about to have a bare bottom...’ Patsy let out a giggle then, wondering which lucky star had given her this gift of a woman with whom to share her life. Delia regarded her with mock disdain. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Madame Busby-Mount. Could you stop your schoolgirl snickering for long enough to be stable, please? Thank you _ever so_ kindly. Up you go, then, leaning tower of Pats.’

They paused, nominally for breath, but really to capture the moment for posterity and nostalgia, prolonging this cuddle as far as arthritis would allow. Eventually they needed to move, and Patsy took up the commentary, a necessity now to bring her belligerent body back into line. ‘Guiding gently onto the bed. Shuffling back. Right arm out of jumper sleeve, shirt sleeve and vest – really, Deels, I think that was a tad excessive. Thank God we dispensed with bras long ago, at least. Now head out.’ The rest was muffled by sheer amount of clothing, which was probably no bad thing. As far as Delia could hear, it was something along the lines of ‘Shit, I’m stuck; did you mean to mummify me, love? Love?’

That having been her last possible intention, Delia was only too eager to offer assistance, at least once she had recovered from her covert chuckles at Patsy’s rare profanity. Salvaging her wife’s dignity from beneath a heap of knitwear and silk, she beamed when their eyes met. ‘Hello, sailor, what have you done with my demure damsel who won’t even swear in French?’

‘She was drowned by a sea of cloth, alas. And now we have to fight with my left arm, too. Fucking fingers. And elbows. I’d like to have a word with whomever it was that thought elbows were a good idea.’

‘I concur on the elbows. I’ve always found fingers quite useful, though, personally.’

‘Delia!’

‘You’re not the only one in possession of shock tactics. We’ve more than enough filth to go ’round. There,’ she said, slipping a final sleeve off, and then retracing its path with a light touch of her palm, ‘that’s your left side sorted. Distraction works wonders, doesn’t it, dear?’

‘ _You_ work wonders.’

‘What, getting you nearly naked without you realising? I have had a fair few years of practice. Let’s finish the job, shall we? Shoes off, so we can liberate these trousers and knickers from their current resting place around your ankles, please. That can’t be good for your circulation.’ She paused as they tussled with Patsy’s toes. ‘There. Success! Now, love, how’s about you lie down whilst I get rid of my own things?’

Patsy pouted, despite acknowledging the sense in this suggestion. ‘I want to help.’

Delia winced at the desperate tinge to her tone, because it cut right through their laughter to an underlying feeling of lack. ‘I know. I would have got undressed before, so you could at least watch,’ she paused at Patsy’s arched brow, and hoped it was a sign of her relaxing, ‘but I thought it might make the transfer dangerous.’ The eyebrow raised higher, and she tried again. ‘You do help, darling, every moment of every day.’

‘Not physically, though, not now. My physical self-sufficiency was the one thing I had, and...’

‘Pats. Do I need to tie you to this bed and remind you of the wide range of meanings behind the word “reciprocity”? You said earlier that “you get it”, but I really don’t think you do. Dementia could never make me want you less. To quote a certain sonneteer, “Love is not love / Which alters when it alteration finds.”’

Patsy’s breath caught on a mixture of gratitude and desire. ‘Deels – ’ But Delia shook her head and placed a finger to her lips.

‘If anything it puts me in a better position, because now I may return all the favours you’ve done me over the years, from getting things off shelves to doing up buttons I was too clumsy to manage. I want to worship the whispering web of your old scars, seemingly faded but somehow still as stark as they were when you first let me see them properly on that night in 1963, and to show you as I do how safe and strong you make  me feel. I want to swallow up these new shakes and spasms, and teach you a remedial lesson in self-love. You are more than an equal partner here – always have been, always will be.’

Patsy’s answering smile was shaky, but a smile nonetheless. ‘I love you,’ she said simply, ‘always have done and always will do.’

‘I shan’t tie you to the bed then. I shall, instead, go and get the massage oil – for your back, which I think has been neglected of late with all of the focus on your brain, but also for your feet and legs. No, Pats, don’t give me that look. If you’re hoping I haven’t noticed that you’ve dealt with their deterioration by separating them off from the rest of you, you’ve got another think coming. Your lovely long legs deserve some attention, especially since it’s not their fault. Neurology is your nemesis, not your knees. Lie down, _cariad_ , please.’

Patsy did as asked, shutting her eyes in an effort not to stare up at the ceiling and over-think things until Delia returned, which meant that the next sensation she was aware of came from the unexpected warmth of slick oil on her feet. She gave a murmur of pleasure, and opened her eyes to find Delia gazing at her in gentle triumph.

‘Okay?’

‘More than okay.’

‘Happier now that we are similarly unclothed, _cariad_?’ Delia let her hands drift from Patsy’s feet to her shins, and then her knees.

‘Completely content.’ Patsy’s voice hitched at the combined release of muscular tension and the beginnings of entirely different sorts of spasms, ones that she had resigned herself to not experiencing again. ‘I won’t be so stubborn next time,’ she promised, earnestly. ‘I love you for loving my legs. But Deels?’

‘Mmm?’

‘My back can wait. I can’t. Not a single moment longer – and neither should you. Let me welcome you home?’

~

_On the evening of Saturday 6 th April 1963, Delia Busby and Patsy Mount were more than a little giddy. More than a little tipsy, too, but mostly giddy – because today they had finally succeeded in moving out of Nonnatus and into their long-awaited flat. Following a long but productive day of cleaning (on Patsy’s part) and interior design (on Delia’s), they had celebrated by swapping their dust- and paint-sample-covered overalls for some considerably more cultured clothes – and heading out on the town. Specifically to Gateways, their safe space with the green door. At one time that had seemed like their shared colour, so much so that their first flat’s door had also been green; but since all the hopes harboured within its walls had been far too quickly quashed, they had elected to opt for a less verdant shade as they embarked on this new venture._

_It was this bright blue door that they sought now, tripping over Poplar’s paving stones and cobbles in the half-light of a dusk punctuated only dimly by streetlamps. For, as much as they still relished the cohesion and community offered by The Gates’ clientele, tonight they had not lingered long. They were too keyed-up (literally) by the knowledge that they had a private place in which the atmosphere could – would – be all the more charged for the simple (complex?) fact that they were alone. True, the flat was significantly smaller than any of the buildings they had previously inhabited together, but it had a curious quality of seeming bigger on the inside than its exterior would suggest. It felt like their own little universe. (In years to come, they would chuckle about the correlation between their blue door and that of the spaceship with similarly contradictory sizing that also first appeared on the London landscape in 1963. But that didn’t arrive until November, and this was April, so at this point they remained confident in their originality.)_

_Patsy stumbled as her foot snagged on a slightly loose cobble. Naturally, Delia lurched to catch her. ‘Up you go, leaning tower of Pats.’_

_The taller woman let out a bark of laughter at the phrase, knowing it would be futile to deny its accuracy, and leaned gratefully against Delia’s shoulder. ‘We’ll go there sometime. After Paris, of course.’_

_‘After we get_ home _, you mean. I’m still wary of using that word, in case anything happens, but it makes me so happy I can’t help myself. I won’t have to find excuses to touch you, even like this, and that’s such a relief.’_

_‘Are you sure you want to touch me?’_

_The unexpected question made Delia’s heart ache. ‘Always. Especially on a night like tonight, though. Walking with you – walking_ home _with you – along the lanes of London’s East End is practically perfect, but made all the more so by the thought that there is no-one to curb our closeness now that we can shut our own front door.’_

_‘Are you propositioning me, Delia Busby?’ Patsy’s tone was lighter now, but still laced with uncertainty._

_‘What if I am? What would you say?’_

_‘I thought you wouldn’t want to, not now. I’m broken, Deels, not beautiful.’_

_Delia kept her voice steady, determined not to betray how much it hurt to hear Patsy say such things of herself. ‘You are marvellous, Nurse Mount, and you deserve to be shown just_ how _marvellous, now that we have the time and space. Where’s my firebrand, eh, so passionate in her beliefs about equality and reciprocity?’ She searched around the dark street for further inspiration. ‘Look at those crocuses –’_

_‘Croci.’_

_‘Pedant. Trust you to ruin my point.’_

_‘Sorry,’ Patsy said, smirking and not seeming sorry at all. ‘They’re well in bloom, though. They must have popped out early. They pay no heed to calendars or conventions...’ She trailed off, suddenly struck by the parallel being drawn here._

_‘Or preconceptions about when – if – they can or cannot be considered beautiful.’ Delia finished Patsy’s sentence before posing a crucial question. ‘Could you take a leaf out of their book,_ cariad _?’_

_‘Yes.’_

_‘Yes?’_

_‘Yes. We’ve waited long enough, Deels.’_

_~_

_When they at last found their door, Delia fumbled for the key, unable to stop grinning. Then, once they were inside, she suggested Patsy wait in the bedroom. ‘I’m just nipping to the loo, all right,_ cariad _?’ On her return, she observed that her girlfriend had yet to respond. ‘Pats, is this okay? We don’t have to –’_

_Patsy cut her off. ‘I want to. Believe me. It’s just I don’t think I’ll match up to your expectations.’_

_‘You’re talking about it as though we’ve never done this before.’_

_‘We haven’t. Not like this. Even just now at Nonnatus, we still had to keep_ some _clothes on, for propriety’s sake.’_

 _Delia nodded as realisation dawned. ‘I’ll get undressed first. You can watch,_ cariad _,’ she added with a wink._

 _‘I’d rather not, actually.’ Now it was Delia’s turn to co-opt Patsy’s trademark raised eyebrow, causing the redhead to rush into an explanation. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to see you, I do, but I’m so nervous about you seeing_ me _that I think watching you as you slowly reveal yourself might push me over the edge. Sorry, Deels, I know I’ve ruined the mood.’_

_‘Not at all, Pats – I’m proud of you for telling me. Go to the bathroom, then, and see if you can find the small bottle of massage oil I put into the cabinet. It’s rather hidden away so, by the time you’re back, I should be done.’_

_Delia was right; when Patsy re-entered their room, holding the requested bottle after a lengthy search, she was greeted by a shy smile from the blushing brunette. Allowing herself only the briefest of glances at her girlfriend’s form so as not to appear hypocritical in her own anxiety, she touched Delia’s face with one hand and brandished the oil with the other. ‘What’s this for, then?’_

_Delia took the bottle and placed it on one of the bedside tables before replying. ‘Your back. I thought it might help your scars; and, since they are likely the bit you’re most concerned about me seeing, I also thought it would give us a purpose other than ogling.’_

_Patsy shook her head, grinning in gratitude. ‘What did I do to deserve you?’_

_‘You helped me up when I tripped on the first day of training. Given the way everyone else responded, that was more than enough to send me a different kind of head-over-heels.’_

_‘Well, Deels-head-over-heels, this might seem odd in light of my anxiety, but you’ll notice I haven’t yet got changed. I was going to do so at the same time as you, whilst hidden in the bathroom, but I couldn’t quite pull myself together.’_

_‘May I help you?’_

_‘Would you? That seems awfully unequal.’ Patsy’s wariness threatened to resurface with a vengeance._

_‘Of course. It would be an honour. Sit on the edge of your bed for me?’_

_‘I’m perfectly able to stand, Delia.’_

_‘Oh, I know,_ cariad _– that’s why I suggested sitting. Eye-contact makes you feel safer, doesn’t it?’ Patsy nodded (she seemed to be doing a lot of that) but remained rooted to her spot. ‘Well then,’ Delia continued, ‘eye-contact requires us to be at eye-_ level _, which is impossible when you’re standing. Sit down, love.’_

 _‘_ Diolch _, Deels.’ Patsy at last complied, giggling softly at her own ridiculousness, and awaited further instruction._

_‘Right. Shoes off first. I suppose we should leave your back until the end, so you have less time to feel exposed?’ Patsy murmured assent and gratitude. ‘That’s fine. Trousers and knickers next, then – just push up from the bed slightly and I’ll pull them down.’_

_Patsy performed the movement, and kept her eyes on Delia’s face, but they were sparkling now. ‘Is that one of your usual lines, Busby?’_

_Her answer came via a light slap on her recently-bared leg. ‘No, actually, although I do love it when you wear slacks – they give me much easier access. So, when I do this,’ Delia paused for effect whilst trailing her hand up the considerable length of Patsy’s shin, knee, and thigh, ‘I get to feel skin instead of stocking.’_

_‘Deels?’ Patsy’s voice was barely more than a whisper._

_‘Mmm?’_

_‘Take off my shirt and bra. Not for my back – that can wait a while, now I’m not afraid of you looking – but_ I _can’t. I want to welcome you home.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Congratulations (and thank you!) if you’ve made it this far. Hopefully it wasn’t massively below my usual par, and not too cringey!


	5. May - Delphinium Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy is unseasonably sick, Delia is struggling, and Trixie is a stalwart friend (in both timeframes).
> 
> Content Note for fever-induced delirium, hallucinations, and discussion of psychosis and cPTSD (and some of the various treatment options). Also mention of catheterisation and incontinence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, huge thanks for the overwhelmingly lovely response to the last update – I’m so very relieved it was okay! Secondly, apologies for the lateness of this one. I was on a course at the BBC for disabled actors all week, which was amazing, but it meant I had very little time to write. Hopefully this chapter will make up for the delay - it is in many ways much more in my comfort zone, writing about the ins-and-outs of aspects of life dealing with disability and mental health. However, it’s still rather scary and raw for me, so fingers crossed it will be readable.

‘Thank you for coming to stay, Trix.’

‘Not at all, Delia. It’s always a privilege to be granted access to the inner sanctum of the Busby-Mounts.’ The two women were standing, dressed in their nighties, in the kitchen of this aforementioned flat. Trixie was leaning casually next to the counter, looking pensive, whilst Delia studiously attempted to ignore her expression on the pretence of making them both some early morning tea. Of course Trixie noticed the deflection and, in any other instance (as indeed in so many before), she would have respected it – were it not for the fact that she could also see a stray tear slowly but steadily snaking its way down the side of her old friend’s face. For all Delia’s reputation, throughout their shared professional life, of wearing her heart on her sleeve, Trixie was aware that such _personal_ emotional displays were almost exclusively reserved for the eyes of the woman she now so gladly called her wife. Her willingness to let Trixie witness this one, however small it might seem on the surface, must therefore almost certainly be interpreted as a call for help. Consequently, when the (empty) teaspoon Delia was ostensibly using to stir sugar into their drinks started clattering against the side of one of the cups, Trixie felt duty-bound to act.

‘Delia.’

‘Mmm?’ The (slightly) younger woman was still resolutely refusing to make eye-contact and, it now seemed, conversation.

Trixie hesitated a moment before speaking again, conscious that she must proceed delicately. ‘I’m know that I’m not the person you want this sort of support from right now, and that that is probably the crux of the issue, but would you be open to me giving you a hug, sweetie?’

In answer, Delia dropped the spoon, finally abandoning the charade of productivity. ‘Would you mind?’

‘Of course not – why do you think I’m here?’ Trixie’s question was both rhetorical and relieved, and matched her expression as she brought her friend in close. ‘I must say I’ve hardly ever been more pleasantly surprised than I was when you rang to suggest I visit. I’ve seen firsthand how fiercely protective you both are of your privacy and independence (and with good reason), so it had to come from you without me prying, but I want you to know you don’t have to go through this alone. You’ve hidden away for far long enough, sweetie, and you were both there for me during Christopher’s illness, so now it’s _my_ turn to support you through this difficult process.’

Just as Trixie wondered whether the single tear and quiver of lips might erupt into sobs, Delia pulled gently away and wiped the wetness from her eyes. ‘Thank you, Trix, for being a voice of reason. I’m doing okay at the moment – well, I’m doing the best I can – but it’s feeling more and more like it isn’t enough and over the last week or so it’s been almost impossible to get through to her. She’s all over the place even when she’s lucid and it just seems to be happening so fast now I’m not sure I can keep up. I thought I’d be prepared for this but I just feel so bloody inadequate. None of my medical understanding seems worth a jot if I can’t use it to help her.’

‘Take a breath, sweetie.’

Delia laughed shakily, as if she had genuinely forgotten to stop for air. ‘And now I feel guilty for ranting to you when she’s just down the hall – especially for talking about her in the third person. What I’m experiencing must be nothing in comparison to Pats’ panic and, in selfishly indulging my own melodrama, I’ve pushed her completely aside.’

Trixie raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, that was a stream of over-analysis and self-chastisement to rival Patsy’s, wasn’t it? So I’m going to borrow a tactic that I think _you_ would employ with _her_ – and deconstruct each of those worries you just verbalised on an individual basis.’ Delia nodded, and Trixie was relieved to see a slight smile play across her friend’s lips at the thought of getting a taste of her own medicine for once. ‘Right then. I’ll start with your feelings of inadequacy, because that seems to be the undercurrent to everything else, and shows me yet again that your responses to situations – not just to the specifics of this one – are not as different from those of your “worry-wart wife” as you might like to pretend.’

Delia laughed properly now. ‘Please tell me you haven’t told _Pats_ I call her that.’

Trixie’s eyes sparkled as she shook her head. ‘I do possess _some_ tact, and always have, contrary to popular belief. That’s not to say I haven’t been tempted, mind you, especially at moments like this when you deliberately try and deflect from the task at hand. However long we’ve known each other, you’ve always been so selflessly supportive of me that I mostly don’t feel I have enough authority to call you out on your crap, so sometimes I’ve wondered what would happen if I let “your Pats” know how much you try and protect her.’

Delia squirmed at her friend’s accurate assessment of her character, and then was struck by a sudden realisation, which filled her with such sadness that further tears threatened. ‘Sorry,’ she said softly, thinking as the words left her lips that she wasn’t really sure why an apology seemed necessary.

Trixie grew immediately serious. ‘No, _I’m_ sorry, sweetie. I shouldn’t be pushing you like this, not right now.’

Delia took her hand in an effort to comfort them both. ‘I’m grateful, Trix. It’s not what you said, it’s just that I realised – well, you’ll always have to wonder, now, won’t you? I _have_ to protect her, because she won’t understand if I don’t. I can’t let my personal concerns get in the way of providing proper care.’

‘And there’s the bottom of it. Well done. She’s your wife, Delia, not a nameless number on a ward sheet. That final sentence of yours _actually_ has the order the wrong way around – you can’t expect your personal concerns _not_ to surface, and I’d argue that enhances your ability to care for her. You understand the quirks she had before, so you can tell the difference between symptoms and her individual idiosyncrasies. However, you definitely _aren’t_ expected to manage that balance on your own, which is why I was glad you called me. Back to our current conundrum of teasing out your tangled thoughts, then – you are indeed doing your best. I’d even wager it’s far more than enough. Yes, it is moving faster _at the moment_ than we might all have initially expected, but (not that you will have forgotten this, I know) there is a reason. She’s sick, sweetie, fighting off the ends of the infection brought on by that cursed catheter. Which, by the way, I still can’t quite fathom why they put in.’

‘They wanted her to retain as much control as possible,’ Delia cut in, guilt (deserved or otherwise) causing her to jump to defence. ‘She still knows when she needs to go, mostly,’ she said more moderately, thinking of Patsy’s mortification at a recent accident. It had resulted in a meltdown about germs and sanitation (expected) as well as panic about punishment (not entirely unexpected, but still a saddening surprise). So, whilst incontinence pads had felt too far a stretch in terms of dignity and dirtiness (it being originally impossible to persuade Patsy that the latter issue was much reduced by advances in design), the catheter had been a mid-point. Now, thanks to this lingering infection, they had had no other choice – and, as Delia herself had predicted in one of their earliest discussions, this particular assault on her autonomy had hit her wife hardest. ‘My poor Pats,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘Delia?’

Delia jumped at the sound of Trixie’s voice. ‘Sorry, Trix, I was miles away.’

‘Never apologise to me,’ Trixie said instantly, ‘I shouldn’t have brought up the catheter. I’m all too aware of how difficult such decisions are, and that’s purely in the abstract, without taking Patsy’s formidable determination for independence into account. I just wanted to remind you that fevers can be fiendish things and that her current, more critical, condition didn’t arise entirely out of the blue.’

‘Ironically, since that’s the only thing that calms her –’ Delia broke off, silently shaking herself for letting such a private piece of their shared strategy slip.

‘What was that?’

She was in too deep to get out of it now. ‘Blue is the only thing that calms her when she’s – like this.’

‘Blue like your eyes?’

Delia smiled shyly. ‘I suppose so. But also like the dormouse, y’know, “Geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue)”.’

‘AA Milne?’

‘My Mam taught me that poem. I told Pats _her_ red hair and blue eyes made me think of it, and she didn’t have the slightest clue what I meant.’

‘I think I remember that day.’

‘Do you?’ Delia was incredulous. ‘But you didn’t know. About us.’

Trixie chuckled. ‘Of course I did, sweetie, but, as I said earlier, I also knew – and know – how to be discreet. She was sick, well, struggling, then, too. What was I supposed to think when I popped over to visit your new home and the “two single beds” were pushed together “so you could check on her”? I’m not Barbara.’

Delia blushed at that, deciding that now, over five decades later, was not the time to destroy younger Babs’ reputation of innocence. Better for Trixie to think she was red from embarrassment. ‘Patsy would have your guts for garters at this point. _I’m_ just going to flounce out in a polite temper and get dressed.’

Trixie choked on a laugh. ‘You do that. From what I recall of our youth, your flounces are something to behold.’

As the shorter woman sniffed theatrically and made to leave, there was a shout from the bedroom. ‘Mother? Gracie?’

‘She’s awake!’ Delia brightened at the sound of her wife’s voice, but her eyes widened when she grasped the meaning of the words. ‘Trix – I can’t...’

‘I’ll come with you and sit with Patsy. You need to go in there to get dressed, anyway.’

Nodding, Delia started down the passage, treading softly to minimise potentially startling noise. ‘It’s all right, Pats, I’m – we’re – here,’ she whispered as she entered their room, with Trixie following closely behind.

Patsy’s eyes flicked vaguely in the direction of the door. ‘I’m too hot. I can’t get too hot, because Mother told me we musn’t, and then she did. Gracie, too, and now me. I need water, but we can’t drink it, because it’s dangerous. But I’m so thirsty. Do you think if I had a little bit it would be all right?’

Swallowing her panic at the childlike tone, Delia stole a brief glance at Trixie. She knew this was the worst their friend would have seen Patsy, and wanted to make sure that her own past wasn’t triggered. Trixie caught her look and gave a stern, but kindly, one back. ‘I’m fine, Welsh worry-wart.’ Then, to Patsy, ‘Hello, sweetie, are you happy for me to have a feel of your head? Then we’ll see about that water, won’t we, Delia?’

Patsy and Delia nodded in unison, and giggled quietly together, before Patsy spoke again. ‘You are both very nice. And Delia is my favourite name. My wife...’

Delia nearly choked. First the hallucination; now this? No. No. No. Not yet. She wasn’t ready. No. No. No. She couldn’t cry. Trixie would be just as bewildered at having been forgotten and she needed to help her through that. At least Patsy knew her wife’s name, even if she didn’t associate it with the woman standing at the end of the bed. Their bed. Their bed which, only a few weeks back, had made them both so happy again. Oh God. Not that Delia had ever believed in a God of any kind, really, much to her mother’s disapproval. And now _her_ thoughts were rambling, too – so much so that she must have missed Trixie’s first subtle attempt to get her attention.

‘Delia?’

‘Mmm? Sorry.’

‘It’s not – she hasn’t – it’s the fever, sweetie.’ Such bluntness was bold, but Patsy was past the point of noticing. ‘Could you wet a cloth for me? We’re only a little too hot, so you can get dressed first, but I still want to cool things down.’

Delia nodded mutely, grabbed a pile of clothes which could just about be considered passable, and padded to the en suite bathroom. It was only a few paces, in comparison to the size of the rest of the flat, but in that moment it felt like the longest walk of her life. Especially in contrast to the speed with which she washed and dressed once she shut the door. Right. Done. Teeth, then – any appetite for breakfast having long since disappeared – and open the door to face the fearful fever once more. Pull yourself together, Busby-Mount.

‘One cloth to cool my beloved’s brow,’ she said softly, shaking her head at Trixie’s proffered hand and wiping Patsy’s forehead herself.

‘Thank you, darling Deels.’

‘You are welcome, patient Pats.’ Delia’s humour was laced with relief at their mutual recognition. ‘Now, are you happy to be left in Trixie’s capable hands whilst I nip out for a bit? I have a prescription – of a sort – to collect.’

Patsy nodded, smiling gratefully at her friend and giving her a slight squeeze for comfort, before directing a tired, but determined, question towards her wife. ‘Delphiniums?’

Delia grinned in spite of herself. ‘Perhaps, _cariad_ , perhaps.’

~

_As she wandered through the side streets of Poplar on the evening of Tuesday 7 th May 1963, Trixie Franklin was feeling decidedly devilish. Not only had she felt safe and stable enough to take a night off from her AA meetings (after prior consultation with the rest of the group, of course) she had done so not for a date with Christopher but to visit her friends in their new home. Admittedly, she had no right to feel devilish, because her reasons for going were part of the conditions on which her absence had been agreed. Patsy, it seemed, was struggling – and had been signed off work for a while. Much to her chagrin and displeasure, naturally, because she felt she had only just got back; but the combination of Sister Julienne and Delia was a formidable one and, eventually, she had begrudgingly submitted to their good sense._

_Patsy was lucky to have Delia – someone who understood her well enough to know when to let her idiosyncrasies lie and when to challenge her to change. Delia, too, was lucky to have Patsy, for much the same reasons. Each had helped the other through some tough (terrible) times, even if they had not been there in the immediate vicinity. Delia coaxing Patsy to talk about her traumas like no-one else could (not even Trixie, because her own coping mechanisms were too similar), and Patsy coaching Delia through the myriad mazes of training, then midwifery, with (of course) the rehabilitation from her accident in between. Trixie was only at the beginning of her relationship with Christopher – a fact of which the anxiety that still surfaced each time they met made her painfully aware – but she nevertheless harboured a burgeoning hope that he might, in years to come, do the same for her, and she for him._

_Perhaps that was why she felt devilish tonight. She had known for a long time that the two women were far more than the “best friends” they claimed during any introductions, but they had never explicitly told her, so she thought they might now that they would be in the comfort of their own home. Then, immediately, Trixie was overwhelmed with guilt for putting her own desire to be right ahead of consideration for Patsy’s condition – because there was absolutely no doubt about the fact that_ their _mutual status was “best friends”. Relieved to have her priorities restored, and that the absence from AA wasn’t having an entirely detrimental effect on her moral compass, Trixie resumed the search for the door to the flat with an increased effort. It wasn’t that it was difficult to find, exactly, but walking in heels over cobbles seemed to get harder each time she tried it. She had noticed Patsy had given them up almost completely since her return from Hong Kong, now favouring brogues on the rare occasions when her work shoes would be considered gauche. She seemed to have the right idea – and managed to pull it off rather fetchingly. Not that she’d have_ anything _on her feet this evening, Trixie supposed, since if Delia could help it she’d be tucked up in bed. At that thought, Trixie smiled, and it broadened into a grin when she realised she had found the door. Curbing her excitement slightly in deference to the reason for her visit, she knocked loudly enough to be heard but softly enough to avoid provoking any sudden startles._

_She had barely finished her first rap when the door opened to reveal Delia, all smiles, yet with tired eyes. ‘Thank you for coming over, Trix,’ she said earnestly, before stepping aside to usher her friend in._

_‘Not at all, Delia,’ Trixie responded with almost equal fervour, before shutting the door behind her. ‘It is a privilege to be invited to your sanctuary. And to be able to help.’ Delia blushed and avoided eye-contact. Trixie refused to be cowed. ‘How are things, sweetie?’_

_Thankfully, Delia responded well to her frankness. ‘We’re doing all right – well, doing the best we can under the circumstances – but at the moment it seems not to be enough. All of my years of nursing (including those ghastly placements on psych) aren’t worth a jot if I can’t use them to help her. I knew it would be difficult when she came back (we both did). She’d be dealing not just with her grief about her father but with everything it brought up about her previous losses – and that’s phrasing it mildly. So we thought it would make sense, after a short period of settling back in, to move away (albeit only a little) and give her space to process those feelings in private. Otherwise she’d just repress out of a skewed sense of respect for the people with whom she lived and worked. Especially you.’_

_Trixie smiled ruefully. ‘I’d be a hypocrite to find fault with that strategy...’_

_Delia returned her grin. ‘Exactly. And, so far, it’s seemed to be the right choice. Yet there’s the crux of the issue. Now she has space and permission to feel, she’s_ really _feeling, and that has hit us both harder than expected. She can’t cope because she’s lost her high function, and I can’t keep up because everything is moving so fast. I feel so inadequate – so bloody inadequate – because no amount of theoretical medical training can even begin to approximate the reality of what she’s been through. People heard_ her _accent during training, and called her privileged, whereas they heard_ mine _and pitied me – but they had it the wrong way ’round. Not that she needs to be pitied – far from it – but she needs support. And I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not the one to give it to her, swanning around with my perfect childhood and without the slightest inkling of what grief is...’_

_‘Take a breath, sweetie.’_

_Delia did so. ‘And now I’m standing here in the hallway putting it all on to you when you have_ more than a good idea _. Sorry, Trix, I’m so selfish.’_

 _Trixie raised an eyebrow. ‘Whilst there are many adjectives I might use to describe you, Delia Busby, that is_ most definitely _not one of them. Particularly because, since we’re talking psychology here, your speech just now was a stream of consciousness to rival Patsy’s. I think you need the tables turned and for me to employ a strategy you might use with her. Then, I’ll make all three of us some tea, and take it through to the patient Patience. Fair?’_

_‘Fair.’ Delia grinned again at Trixie’s inability to resist the pun on Patsy’s name – it was how she had known they’d get on when they first met._

_Trixie nodded. ‘You do yourself a huge disservice on a number of counts. Firstly, you know her better than anyone else, and are therefore best-placed to distinguish between grief taking its natural – if difficult – course and actual psychosis. Secondly, you_ do _have experience of bereavement, albeit a slightly different sort. You lost your memory, Delia. Thirdly, because I know you won’t want to dwell on that aspect, however much you may be doubting your own mettle at the moment, your training combined with your compassion (heightened as it is in Patsy’s case) leaves you far better qualified to care for her. You are only too aware that current protocol would have her locked away, because she (quite understandably, if I may say so) is not at the stage where she can talk to someone other than you – and this refusal would be deemed as non-compliance. Such a situation would only intensify her trauma. As for the faster movement, her immune system will be down, so it wouldn’t surprise me if she has been feverish.’_

 _Delia stared a moment in sudden clarity. ‘She got up last night because she was hot. Too hot. I – I pushed our beds together to check on her, and the sheets were drenched with sweat. She wouldn’t let me take her temperature, so I thought it was just a nightmare, but her speech was slurred. Maybe she_ was _delirious. She kept staring at my eyes, as though they were anchoring her in place. Oh, Trix, have I been a bad nurse?’_

_‘No, sweetie, consent is crucial and she explicitly denied it. A slight spike in temperature is not tantamount to cognitive impairment – and neither is outright psychosis, actually, whatever some consultants might think. We should go and assess her though, really; how has she been since? I know Sister Julienne has told you to stay off this month, too, because we have Lucille now.’_

_‘Yes, she’s been very understanding. As for Pats, she’s been reading AA Milne. I recited her a poem of his, thinking she’d have heard of it, but she hadn’t.’_

_‘You mean Winnie-the-Pooh?’ Trixie was incredulous._

_Delia laughed. ‘Not quite._ _“The Dormouse and the Doctor”, from his first anthology,_ When We Were Very Young _. I told her she was my red and blue remedy, like the geraniums and delphiniums. She didn’t know what I meant, but then she wouldn’t, having not grown up here. So I borrowed a copy from Shelagh and Patrick last week, and she’s had her nose in it ever since. She says she’s using it as a tool to reclaim the idea of childhood, but I think she might be taking it a little far...’ She trailed off, smiling._

_Trixie noticed the unfettered expression, a face full of secrets reserved only for Delia’s “best friend”. They really must be careful – but it wasn’t Trixie’s place to be offering anything more than kindly solidarity, especially now, whilst Patsy was sick. So, resolving to do just that, she merely returned Delia’s grin and asked a gently curious question. ‘What makes you say that?’_

_‘Well, yesterday, she sent me out to get a whole lot of delphiniums from the market. She insists that my penchant for “chrysanthemum yellow” as she calls it, will no longer do. Come and see,’ Delia finished, before grabbing Trixie’s hand and pulling her through to the bedroom on tiptoes._

_As they entered the room, Patsy glanced up from her book, and broke into a broad smile at the sight of Trixie._

_‘Hello, old thing, have you come to check on my sanity? Sorry about the veritable florist-shop in here – my darling Deels brought me a much-needed prescription.’_

_Delia blushed at the endearment. That settles it, then, thought Trixie, as she put a mock-concerned hand to Patsy’s forehead. “Best friends” indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was okay. The bits about the catheter/incontinence pads were inspired by many fraught meetings I’ve had with social workers where they have tried to convince me either to have one fitted or to use pads, so they don’t have to give me as much money in my budget to employ people... (I am perfectly continent and my Paediatrician refused to let them, but it still hovers over me.) That said, I also know there is no shame in needing either, so I wanted to open up a (hopefully nuanced) discussion. The bits about mental health are (not so) vaguely linked to my experience, too, especially around grief.
> 
> Also, in case anyone wants to read the poem referenced throughout, it’s here: https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dormouse-and-the-doctor/
> 
> Thanks so much again for your kindness about this little fic of mine, it is hugely appreciated.


	6. June - Magnolias in Midsummer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer Solstice (in the UK at least) fun, exploring issues around communication. Featuring Trixie, and Emily, the original character from my ‘Marathon’ fic.
> 
> Content Note for brief discussion of the current UK crisis in social care – also that the flashback is set during Delia’s recovery from her accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ironically the previous chapter was somewhat prophetic, as I’ve had a fever this week, so hopefully this update is intelligible. (It has been proofread!) Thanks as always for your kindness and support in coming along on this journey with me – and with Pats and Deels, of course!

‘There.’ Delia nodded in approval as she finished smoothing the final layer of her wife’s outfit. ‘That cardi is extremely fetching on you, _cariad_ , even by my own –’ The end of that sentence was cut off by Patsy looking, extremely pointedly, over her shoulder. Delia turned slightly to follow her gaze, tutting with affectionate annoyance when she realised its object: the calendar hanging above their dressing table. ‘Yes, Pats, I am aware it’s June; but June in England is a fickle beast, and I don’t want you getting cold. You can always take it off if you get too hot.’ Patsy shook her head vehemently. ‘You’re already hot? Oh, love, won’t you at least wait until we’re outside and see how you feel then? Please. Em’s forever going on about how circulation works differently when you’re sitting down. I know she’s been sitting down for longer than you have, but that means she has more experience, surely?’

Patsy gave a resigned snort. Delia held her breath, hoping for more but, when no further communication was forthcoming, smiled sadly. Somehow, these days, getting her way didn’t taste half as sweet as it used to do. Noticing a tinge of concern in her wife’s eyes, she brightened, and asked one more question. ‘Talking of Em, are you excited to catch up?’

Patsy nodded vigorously, eyes gleaming with a multitude of emotion now, and Delia sighed her relief at a meltdown having been successfully avoided. Then she heard her wife speak - softly, slowly, but surely. 'I can't wait.'

Delia knew her level of delight at those three words was vastly disproportionate to their content and context, but she didn't care. Not least because its very presence in this moment drew attention to its relative absence in most others. Somehow, therefore, happiness had to be permissibly heightened to compensate for, and conceal, the punishing drop of its opposite. Thank heavens (for want of a suitably secular phrase at a time when "goodness" definitely did not pass muster) for the haven of humour. 'So it's like that, is it, _cariad_? You can speak for the sake of the eminent Emily, but not for your "dear old Deels"?' Patsy's brows shot up but, as her lips parted on the beginning of an effort to reply, Delia placed a single finger against the slight gap.

With a simultaneous squeeze of a seated shoulder to signal that this was all in fun, she looked her wife squarely (but sympathetically) in the eye. 'It's all right, Pats, you don't need to explain. I won't presume I understand you better than you do yourself, because you're still an enigma to me even at this late stage in our lives, but I have cracked _some_ elements of your (insistently analogue) code. You're embarrassed because your speech has slowed and is slurring, and couldn't bear to leave me with a distorted version of your dulcet tones. That's fine - I was much the same when I thought of talking to you for the first time after my accident - but that's my point, too, love. Amidst all the things you've forgotten, and will continue to forget, I'm especially keen for you to remember that I've _also_ fought this particular battle. Consequently, _cariad_ , you need to know I'm right by your side, and that I find your dysarthria as delectable now as you did mine back then.'

She paused, removing her finger as Patsy laughed at the alliteration, and then could not help her own giggle at the determined (if predictable) addition to the list of ‘d’s. ‘Dear me, Deels, that was quite the declaration.’

In her now unfettered delight (anything else rendered impossible by the full, and _punctuated_ , sentence) Delia was struck by a further strategy which might serve completely to lighten the mood. 'It was indeed. Incidentally, I still fail to grasp the logic of naming any speech impairment – let alone one which has such a wide range of severity and symptoms – something that is so dastardly difficult to say.’

Patsy’s lip quirked entirely of its own volition now, which afforded Delia the extra boon of glimpsing the full extent of her wife’s much-loved lopsided smile. ‘That is, I believe, one of the finest (if frustrating) examples of irony I have found so far.’

‘There, love – sibilance isn’t all _that_ bad, is it, really? I might even go as far as to call it sultry...’

‘Charmer!’ Patsy aimed a soft swipe at Delia’s shoulder.

Sensing a near-miss, and wanting to make the struggle worth it, the shorter woman stepped (imperceptibly, she hoped) closer to the edge of the wheelchair’s seat and basked in the resounding shout of success. ‘Brava – though that had better not bruise!’

Her wife had never been easily duped, however, and was still sensitive to even the slightest, slyest movement. ‘I know what you’re about, Deels, but I’m content to let it lie. Gosh, ‘l’s are hard, aren’t they – except on the end of your name, of course. And that’s the problem; I know even my favourite words won’t last forever. Yet I’m also aware that you won’t mind. Em might, though, since she’s always said I speak the words she never could. That’s why I worked so hard to answer when you asked about her, and why I’m still soldiering on now. I’m gripped with guilt for feeling the loss of something she has never had, not to mention for taking it for granted before we met her.’

Delia nodded, understanding (how could she not?), but still set on shifting Patsy’s perceived need to protect Em (and everyone else) from her pain. ‘And that’s precisely the reason I’m glad we’re getting together today. You _never_ took it for granted, especially following my accident, but even if you had, Em would hardly begrudge you the luxury of linguistic freedom. It was one of the few you had as a child, after all, and then that too was taken away. Your words were lost once, Pats, long before this – and, in getting them back for yourself, you found some for her to share. Through the medium of _mine_ , true, but it is more than an etymological anomaly that “communication” and “community” have so many _communal_ letters.’

‘My battered brain needs a rest after that deluge, Deels!’

‘Sorry,’ Delia said, smiling sheepishly.

‘It’s fine. Message received and much appreciated. If my slurs and sibilance are sultry, your enthusiasm makes you incandescent, and gives me a decidedly different motive to stop talking. But, that would involve staying at home, so if you want us to have any visit with Em I’d suggest we get a move on. Taxi.’

‘Booked. Should be arriving shortly.’

‘Trixie.’

‘Texted. She and Em are all set to meet us.’

‘Cardi.’

‘ _Cariad_?’

‘I might forget things but I can also latch onto them. Cardi. Off.’

‘Sure?’

‘Sure. Some slurred sibilance for you – It’s. The. Summer. Solstice. And my memory needs magnolias. Let’s leave, love.’

~

The journey across London was uneventful – if one ignored the fact that the black cab, booked through the city’s subsidised scheme for people with disabilities (TaxiCard) had taken a further hour to turn up. The buses would have taken too long, so they had wanted to use their Addison Lee account, but it seemed that their fleet of accessible vehicles was so small that a morning booking for later that same day was too much to ask. Spontaneity did not, apparently, sit well with sitting in a wheelchair. Of course there was Uber now, too, but their accessible option was relatively new and, aside from all that, neither woman wanted to support a company which treated its workers so badly or had such questionable morals when it came to customers’ comfort and safety. So, at least all of the black cabs were accessible; if the driver could be bothered to put down the ramp.

Luckily, despite the lateness (which was really the fault of the system), their driver today had been lovely. Upon hearing Delia’s accent, he had asked them both where they were from, and Patsy had been uncharacteristically open (a particular surprise given her acute anxiety about speech). It transpired that he had come over to London as a refugee from Iran, and then eventually started driving in order to fully immerse himself in the capital and learn about its people – and to give something back to the country which had offered him safety. It was what the British did best, in his opinion – which is why he could not process the fact that so many of his fellow drivers had voted to leave the European Union, mostly on the basis of curbing immigration. Delia said she felt the same about Wales, and that the day after the referendum had been the least patriotic of her life. This led to much hilarity, refreshing in light of the conversation’s topic, and the time had zoomed past, offering a small salve for their mutual guilt at being so late for Em and Trixie. Em, of course, didn’t need to rely on cabs, thanks to her blue badge and adapted vehicle – but those sorts of things had certain minimum time-frames for eligibility, which Patsy had yet to reach.

Still, if she had, they wouldn’t have met Abdul – and, as much as a not-insignificant part of Delia wanted to keep Patsy all to herself, she was quietly conscious of how important it was to ensure that her wife continued to interact with as wide a variety of people as possible, both close friends and strangers. So, once they had stopped in the car park at the top of Golders Hill and Abdul was bringing the chair (carefully and considerately) down the ramp, Delia’s only emotion was a mixture of pride and gratitude. He asked Patsy if his driving had been okay and hoped she wasn’t feeling too motion-sick from facing sideways throughout the journey; she responded with profuse thanks for his thoughtfulness and a joke (a joke!) about sea-voyages strengthening her stomach against anything.

Then they paid and waved him off, spotting Em’s car in one of the disabled bays as they did so. Delia tapped out a text to Trixie.

**So sorry, both of you – but we are here at last!**

_Don’t stress, sweetie. Em says time takes on a different quality in disability life. We’ve commandeered a bench near the magnolia tree._

**Be there in two!**

‘Right, Pats, are you ready for a speedy descent of this hill?’

Patsy nodded, eyes sparkling with mirth and mischief. ‘Go!’

Delia did so, deftly controlling the chair to balance speed and safety until they reached the bottom. It was quite amazing how quickly they had both adjusted to this new way of travelling together – along with all it brought with it. Not that everything was always easy, as this morning had reminded them, but it was eas _ier_. ‘Prepare for the paving stones, now, _cariad_...’

Patsy was seemingly oblivious, but positively so – they were in shouting distance of the bench now, and she could see Em’s chair. ‘Look how the tree has bloomed, too, Deels!’

Delia murmured agreement as she brought Patsy to a halt in front of their friends. ‘ _Helo_ Em, hello Trix,’ she said, smiling apologetically again that they were late. ‘Now we’re here, I suppose both you and Pats would like a change of position, eh, _cariad_?’

Em moved her joystick to control her communication aid and Patsy opened her mouth to speak – their shared slightly slower speed meaning that their pronouncement of a single word arrived in unison. ‘Please!’

All four friends laughed together, revelling equally in the release. ‘That’s fine. We’ll get you out and on to the bench one at a time, won’t we, Trix? On the condition that whoever gets there first doesn’t wobble off before the other one joins you, because I’m not sure how we’d begin to get you off the floor. Health and Safety wasn’t such a prevalent concept when we were first working, but we’d still very probably have been fired even then.’

Delia’s tone was so deadpan that they couldn’t help but laugh again. Em busied herself forming another sentence or two. ‘You wouldn’t – I’d have been in a home, with no chance of an outing like this! I might actually end up in one now, what with the current state of social care. It’s my biggest fear. Goodness knows my special boarding school was institutional enough, even if we did have a sense of community.’

Patsy threw her a glance in solidarity. ‘Not a chance,’ she murmured, the softer speech somehow emphasising the force of her statement. ‘If necessary, you’ll move in with us, won’t she, Deels? After all, we have everything you need, and no-one to leave the flat to. I know you and your Mam are trundling along, but you’ll want separate spaces at some point. You could keep Deels company,’ she added almost inaudibly, suddenly aware of her previous use of the plural “us” and everything held within that one word.

Delia nodded. ‘And you’re always welcome, whenever that time arrives. For now, though, there is a bench waiting.’

Trixie put up her hand to pause proceedings. ‘Before we move,’ she said, getting up from her seat and walking around Emily’s chair to rummage in her bag, ‘this young lady has a present for Patsy.’

Delia and Patsy looked at Emily in surprised confusion, and she giggled as Trixie drew two books out from the apparently endless depths of the rucksack on her handlebars. ‘What are these, then?’ they asked together.

‘Open them.’ Trixie was giggling now, too, as she passed them over.

Delia placed the books side by side on Patsy’s lap and gently grasped her right wrist to help steady the movement. At the sight of the first page of each, Patsy’s eyes brimmed over, and Delia only just managed to speak for them both. ‘Oh – Em – a photo album – and a communication book. How thoughtful. Thank you.’

Patsy stammered out a single word. ‘ _Diolch_.’

‘Indeed. _Diolch yn fawr iawn, cariad_ ,’ Delia echoed, having recovered a little.

Em took a moment to compose both herself and a computerised reply. ‘You are welcome. I called my old speech therapist, and she was only too eager to help, knowing how much of a difference you have both made to me. I thought it would be sensible if you had time to get used to navigating something like this before it becomes an absolute necessity. I’m aware of your preference for forward planning, Pats,’ she finished, winking.

‘They are perfect, Em, and more significant and special than you probably realise. I made something similar for Deels once upon a time – not half as professional as this, mind you!’

Patsy paused as Em began to type again. ‘You’ve never mentioned that before! I knew about the accident, but not that!’ Both women were impressed that their friend’s mock annoyance came across even electronically (and via Delia’s voice, of course).

Delia spoke herself now to offer explanation and reassurance. ‘I know, _cariad_. I was embarrassed, though I’m not really certain why, given that you understand the quirks of neurology only too well. Why don’t we sit on the bench and we’ll tell you about it now?’

Em nodded as Trixie chimed in. ‘Yes, let’s! This is news to me, too,’ she added with a theatrical sigh. ‘You think you know everything about your friends and then –’

‘Hypocrite,’ Patsy said with a laugh, and Delia loved her for it. ‘Do you want the story or not?’

_~_

_‘Pats, love, have I done something wrong?’ Delia Busby huffed out the slightly slurred question as she stood a moment to catch her breath. The two young women were walking side by side through the immaculately-kept gardens of Golders Hill Park in North London, and Delia was beginning to tire._

_Patsy also halted and gave her girlfriend a concerned glance. ‘Of course not! Whatever would make you think that?’_

_Delia laughed at Patsy’s literal interpretation of her query. ‘Nothing especially; it’s just that this is a rather punishing walk.’_

_‘Oh, Deels, darling! I’m sorry – you said you wanted to try out a longer distance for something other than work, and preferably nowhere near Nonnatus, so this seemed ideal. I should have thought more carefully about the toll the day would take on you, though.’_

_‘Pats. I was joking. This is perfect. Even if you have made me slur again.’_

_‘Your dysarthria is delectable, Delia. Still, I’m sorry, and if you’re struggling we should sit down. Look, there’s a bench over there, just by that magnificent magnolia tree.’_

_‘Magnificent!? It’s tiny!’_

_‘Two attributes which, in my mind, are definitely not mutually exclusive.’_

_‘Charmer!’_

_‘It’s true,’ said Patsy sincerely, narrowly avoiding a soft swipe to her shoulder, before threading her fingers through her girlfriend’s. ‘Come and sit down.’_

_Surprised and delighted by the sudden, albeit subtle, physical contact, Delia allowed herself to be guided to the desired destination. ‘I am rather tired, actually,’ she confessed as they nestled on the bench, knees touching._

_‘We can sit as long as you like._ I _must admit that it wasn’t exactly an arbitrary choice to come here. It used to be a private home and grounds, but it was bought by the manufacturer of my beloved Pears soap – the first point of significance – at the end of the nineteenth century, before being taken into public ownership. It’s been a hospital since 1917 (the second important connection, my dear Nurse Busby) though not on strictly the same site. The original house was destroyed during the Blitz. One of the nicer teachers at school grew up around here, and she told me that, because she knew what had happened to me. She wanted me to know how beautiful it was despite the devastation in its history, and I’ve held on to her words ever since. I obviously didn’t get to see the place for myself until I started training and could sneak over on the bus, but she had evoked such vivid images in my mind that it didn’t matter.’_

 _‘I think “Poetic Pats” might be my new favourite aspect of your character,’ Delia said, lightly squeezing the fingers which had somehow found their way back through hers. ‘I’d also love to meet that teacher and thank her for being an early anchor for my girl. Even if her words_ are _now being used as a lesson for_ me _!’_

_Patsy laughed. ‘Am I really that conspicuous?’_

_‘Yes,_ cariad _, but I don’t care. I love you for loving me, with all my baggage.’_

_‘How could I not? I have more than enough of my own, and you’ve been dealing with mine for far longer. And yes, I can also pun on your name, Deels,’ she quipped, wanting to end this part of the conversation on as happy a note as possible in order that the next would be well-received. She took a breath, suddenly skittish. ‘On that note, I have a gift – two, actually – for you.’_

_‘What have I told you about spending money –’_

_‘I made them. Well, I bought the books, but I’m always buying new notebooks, so...’ Patsy hid her nervous embarrassment by rummaging in her (sneakily larger than usual) handbag. ‘Here. Open them.’_

_‘Oh – Pats – an album filled with our photo-booth snaps from before!’ Delia grinned at her girlfriend. ‘What’s this second one, though?’_

_‘For when words are difficult. I’m conscious that recovery of any kind is far from a linear process, and that you covered up a fair bit of the residue to convince your Mam to let you stay in London. This is to say I don’t mind in the least how you communicate with me, Deels, but I want you to know that you always can. And I agree I’m a hypocrite, so save your breath.’_

_‘You’re my hypocrite though,’ Delia whispered, ‘and I am yours.’ Then, hoping Patsy wouldn’t mind the public profession if it were couched in Welsh, ‘_ Caru ti, cariad _._ '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the threads here make sense – I haven’t emphasised each individual slur in speech, for instance, because (aside from that making for terribly awkward reading) that isn’t how dysarthria works. I have it extremely mildly (thanks, Cerebral Palsy!) and it’s not especially consistent in its effects. It is connected to motor function, so if I'm tired (like Delia) and therefore very floppy (or tense, like Patsy) it's worse, but mostly I have it conquered. Also, Patsy is at the very early stages of losing her language, so it wouldn’t be realistic for her to go from complete fluency to incoherence in the space of a month. 
> 
> EDIT: I should clarify that dysarthria isn't usually degenerative - you have it at the level that you have it and it kind of sticks, though it can improve, as in the case of Delia. It is a neurological symptom though, so Patsy's VCI/dementia is the reason behind her degeneration. Also, Emily doesn't have dysarthria - she can't speak at all (though she can make noises!), due to a lack of oxygen at birth.


	7. July - A Spoonful of Sunflower Seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Food, flirting and fluff, with some more stuff around communication because October is Alternative Augmentative Communication awareness month (even though this chapter of the fic is set in July).
> 
> Content Note for food, eating and discussions about nutrition, as well as major innuendo and two instances of swearing and a few slurs, plus references to homophobia, biphobia and ableism. Also be advised that the flashback is once again set during Delia’s accident, so there is (somewhat contradictorily) less fluff in the second part than the first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update is so late. I lost another friend this week (one of my former Personal Assistants, she had cancer, and we’ve been waiting for news since last week when she was admitted to a hospice). Simply put, this fic was a bit too close to home, and I just didn’t feel up to fluff. I’ve written some other things, for other fics, but they aren’t quite ready to be published either so I just had to wait it out until I could face this one again. However, the subject of this chapter is oddly apt, because Ania used to feed me when I got tired, and knew exactly what to say to make me laugh. She was also completely okay with me being bi, right from the beginning of our working relationship, which is rare. So, I’m dedicating this to her.
> 
> Sincere thanks as always for the lovely feedback - and apologies if I take slightly longer than usual to reply to comments this week <3

‘Ready for breakfast?’

The nod Patsy gave in answer to her wife’s question was both weary and wary. She was certainly hungry, but everything was just so _slow_ now – and eating was no exception. It frequently felt like all the energy she gained from food was already expended in the act of consuming it. Still, she needed nourishment, and they were determined to delay the decisions about alternative avenues for as long as practically possible. As she opened her mouth to reply verbally, Delia caught the caution up in a quick, comforting kiss.

‘It’s okay, _cariad_ ,’ she said when they broke away. ‘Lingering over a meal together is still such a luxury, sixty years later, that I’m almost thankful for the extra time. And the “almost” is only to signal my sense of the strain on _you_ , not at all for myself,’ she added hastily. Delia was acutely aware that, despite (or perhaps because of) the constantly changing nature of her condition, Patsy’s tendency to turn individual words over and over and inside-out in her head was as sharp as ever.

Her extra effort was rewarded with the combination of a slight, sheepish smile, and the phrase that had now become a standard statement of gratitude, because ‘d’ was easier to form than ‘th’. ‘ _Diolch_ , Deels, darling.’ This was better, and she was about to return the grin, when her wife’s face fell. ‘Not again,’ Patsy groaned, as a small stream of dribble descended from the corner of her (now barely-open) mouth.

Whipping a tea-towel off the pegs above the kitchen counter, Delia wiped away the unwelcome intruder in their (already cautious) conversation, before touching a dry edge of the cloth tenderly to the bridge of her beloved’s nose. ‘No sorries, Pats,’ she pre-empted. ‘Save your speech for something sacred.’

‘But it’s disgusting, Deels!’ Embarrassment about bodily fluids clearly cancelled out caring about communication – a useful sign her personal priorities were still intact.

‘Oh, I don’t know – you’re squeamish about lots of things, but you’ve never baulked at _us_ sharing a bit of saliva...’ Patsy grimaced at the germ-infested clinical description but could not help giggling, and Delia took the opportunity to catch the chuckle in one more kiss. ‘See?’ she said softly, as Patsy’s lips eventually left hers, and the nod in response was now neither weary nor wary. ‘So, how about that breakfast, sweetheart? What would you fancy? I can get your book out if you want to keep your energy for eating.’

Patsy shook her head slowly. She could say this – just about. ‘Smoothie. Please.’

‘Coconut yoghurt?’

A nod.

‘Frozen berries?’

Another nod.

‘Banana?’

A slight headshake – and a retch.

‘No, perhaps not. We probably shouldn’t have taken the dietician’s advice about them being a simple way of adding extra calories to any meal _quite_ as far as we have in the last few weeks.’

A smile and a snort – progress.

‘I could add some apple juice instead? And I suppose you’ll want a separate spoonful of sunflower seeds?’

A grin and a giggle – thank goodness.

‘Right then.’ Delia bustled around the kitchen, and kept up a commentary in order to include her wife as much as possible, knowing Patsy’s fastidious sense of organisation would be chafing against her practical inability to follow along behind and tidy up. ‘Yoghurt. Berries. Apple juice. Blender – and I’ll try not to spray you when I switch it on this time, Pats, I promise.’

Patsy laughed out loud now and Delia’s heart soared at the sound. Simple pleasures like these would forever feel new, no matter how old they got themselves. ‘ _Diolch_ , Deels, darling.’ A pause. ‘How very considerate of you, _cariad_.’

‘Hey! Dysarthria doesn’t stop me spotting the sarcasm couched in those consonants. I could very well call you out for cultural appropriation of my Celtic heritage, too.’ Delia winked at her wife as she blushed. ‘Now, for the sunflower seeds, small spoon or big?’ She feigned innocence as she asked this question, despite knowing all too well what the answer would be – the same as it was when they were figurative spoons being discussed.

‘Small, you saucy sass-mouth.’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re insinuating.’ Delia somehow succeeded in sounding both demure and desirable.

‘Careful.’ Patsy kept her voice light; she had forgotten (a Freudian slip if there ever was one!) how much fun this kind of conversation could be.

‘ _Cariad_?’

‘Well...’ Patsy trailed off, fatigued. Then, only just audibly, as her head drooped to her chest, ‘Fuck.’

‘Was that a suggestion?’ Delia’s eyes sparkled, but she sensed the change in atmosphere, and stopped filling the blender with fruit, to reach down and take her wife’s right hand in hers. When Patsy didn’t respond to the touch, Delia placed her other hand gently under her chin to raise her head. ‘Okay, _cariad_?’ she whispered, letting out the breath she had instinctively held only once their gazes met and mutual recognition was assured.

‘It’s. Not. Fair.’

‘I know.’

‘No, you don’t. I can’t even _flirt_ now, for fuck’s sake.’

‘You can, _cariad_ , and often far too well for my liking – especially as you’re already attached.’ Delia winked to soften the edge of her next sentence. ‘What you lack now, love, is not language but energy. It’s nearly ten o’clock and you haven’t had so much as a mouthful. So, here are your sunflower seeds, and then I’ll finish making your smoothie. Food first, flirting later – all right?’

Patsy nodded, and opened her mouth for the teaspoonful of tiny seeds, concentrating on each individual muscle movement to avoid choking. Chew. Chew. Swallow slowly. Breathe. Dribble... Delightful. ‘Deels?’

Her wife was ahead of her, already holding up the tea-towel. ‘You just wait for your smoothie, Pats, that’ll make you properly attractive,’ she said, poking her tongue out as she scrubbed at the remnants of a particularly stubborn seed.

‘Hey!’

‘Frankly, I think the only effective way to deal with a face-full of fruit will be to kiss it off you. Any objections?’ Patsy shook her head in mock-solemnity as the last part of the question was drowned out by the brief buzz of the blender. ‘Taste? I want to make sure the texture is manageable,’ Delia said, dipping the teaspoon into the plastic container. ‘And don’t worry about germs, this is all for you,’ she added once her wife’s mouth was too full of smoothie to respond. Patsy swallowed and successfully kept the (admittedly small amount) of berry-bright liquid down. ‘Good?’

‘Good. _Diolch_ , Deels.’

‘You’re welcome. And I’m sorry I shut you up by shoving the spoon in your mouth, that was mean of me.’ Patsy nodded, trying to look affronted, but the shine in her eyes gave away her true feelings – she was grateful Delia didn’t treat her any more differently than was necessary.

‘More?’ Patsy nodded and Delia smiled. ‘Hang on, I’ll just grab you a straw – and yes, before you ask, it’s biodegradable. I don’t buy any other kind now we’ve discovered them. Em’s influence,’ she added, knowing that would make her wife even happier. ‘Right. Kitchen table, _cariad_?’

Patsy nodded but flicked a concerned glance towards the container on the counter. ‘Can you?’

‘Can I carry the smoothie and push you? Some of it might end up on your head but, when you ask questions like that, I’m inclined to think you deserve it, _darling_.’

‘Sorry, Deels, I just meant –’

‘I know, _cariad_ , I’m kidding.’ Delia captured her wife’s mouth for another kiss. ‘That’s definitely the most effective (and my favourite) way to shut you up,’ she said silkily. ‘No more teaspoons, I promise!’ Patsy barked out a laugh, but blushed at the dribble that came with it. ‘No sorries, remember? That’s what tea-towels are for,’ Delia chided, caressing the side of the offending cheek with both the cloth and her fingers as she wiped the wetness away.  

Patsy simply smiled back. After almost sixty years (and copious therapy sessions) she had just about got to the point where she could acknowledge that she was allowed – no, _deserved_ – to be with Delia, but at times like these she still couldn’t quite believe her luck. ‘I love you, love,’ she said eventually, in an attempt to answer the quizzical expression on her wife’s face. She felt it was utterly inadequate as a reply, since it barely broke the surface of all she wished to say, but hopefully the emotion underneath it would suffice.

‘I love you, too, love. We really must stop chatting and get some sustenance into you, though. I’ll grab your book out your bag so we can continue the conversation. I wonder what Sister Evangelina or Phyllis would have to say about you talking with your mouthful, eh?’

Patsy laughed. ‘Em says we have to take the perks!’

‘She’s right. There aren’t many, after all! Except being able to execute impressively sharp turns of which most car drivers could only dream,’ Delia quipped as she did exactly that, and one-handed to boot, because she was holding the smoothie. ‘Okay, _cariad_?’ she asked once they reached the table. ‘Do you need to be closer in? I don’t want to bash your knees, and I can put a tea-towel over your lap.’

‘I’m fine here.’

‘Good.’ Delia placed the blender cup in front of Patsy before bending down to do the brakes of her wheelchair and taking the communication book out of her bag.

‘Sorry I can’t help any more, sweetheart.’

‘No sorries. Drink up. We can chat using this; you might learn to love it.’

‘Yes, Nurse,’ Patsy pouted briefly before she dipped her head to try and catch the straw between her teeth.

‘Careful, _cariad_ , that’s rather wobbly. Here,’ Delia sat down on the seat beside Patsy’s chair and helped her wife grasp the cup by taking her right wrist in a firm but gentle hold. ‘Does that help?’

Patsy nodded. ‘ _Dio_ –’

‘Nope. Drink – and don’t give me that look. You need nutrition, and really something significantly more substantial than this smoothie, but I’m not pushing it this morning because we’re going out tonight.’

Patsy’s mouth fell open and she lost the straw. ‘What!?’

‘With Em. Fish and chips in Regent’s Park. I should have written it down on today’s schedule, sorry love,’ Delia added quickly, her eyes pleading.

‘Like before?’

‘Before?’

‘After your accident?’

‘Yes,’ Delia’s eyes threatened to swim with tears of relief. ‘We thought it might be fun.’

‘Fun. I miss that.’

‘Drink up, darling.’

Patsy gestured with her head towards the communication book. ‘Could be fun, too, I guess – especially if we’re flirting.’

‘Drink. You can let me know which page you want, though,’ Delia endeavoured to keep her features still, but her wife’s rare excitement and interest was hard to resist. Patsy nodded, waiting for boxes to be pointed out for her to select.

‘Quick talk?’

A pause. A headshake.

‘Family and friends?’

A pause. A headshake.

‘Feelings?’

A pause. A longer pause. A headshake.

‘Body parts?’

A nod and a sly, shy, lopsided smile.

‘Patience Elizabeth Busby-Mount! You are a minx. No respectable person would go immediately to that page,’ Delia declared in mock-outrage. ‘What’s happened to my wife, the last bastion of propriety?’

Patsy lost the straw again, this time through spitting it out because she was laughing so hard. ‘I – I – I want – to show – Oh, you’ll see!’

Delia tutted, but complied, turning to the requested topic and scanning the page in an effort to predict the filth her wife was about to foist on her. Her eyes rested on a picture about three rows down. ‘Is it this one?’ She pointed to the image, a vague, almost cartoonish outline of a pair of legs with an arrow pointing (just about) between them.

Patsy was resting her head on the table now, trying (unsuccessfully) to hide her sudden embarrassment. She allowed herself a brief glance towards the book and nodded, squirming. ‘Yes,’ she managed, before dissolving into further giggles.

Delia was determined to school her expression. ‘Who showed you that? Em?’ Patsy nodded. ‘I’m going to have to have a conversation with her about corrupting my wife,’ she said, raising an eyebrow.

‘You wouldn’t!’ Patsy was genuinely horrified and Delia couldn’t help but laugh at the scandalised look on her face.

‘Don’t you go all coy, _cariad_ , you were the one who brought it to my attention.’ Delia’s Welsh lilt seemed significantly stronger – but then it always did when they found their way to subjects such as these. ‘Seriously, though, “front-bottom”!? Who do these communication experts think they are!? One would hope they could put aside their own squeamish sensibilities and at least label it with anatomical accuracy. Ridiculous...’

She trailed off, rendered speechless herself at the inadequacy of the provision. People had to accept these methods, or dip into their already stretched stores of time and energy to create their own – hence the empty plastic pockets at the back of the book. Yet that was purely the practical implication. Its far more sinister subtext was that there were things people like Em (and, now, Patsy) were simply expected not to know or talk about; or, rather, not to _need_ to know or talk about. And that, Delia decided, was discriminatory. ‘Heaven forbid you have a sex-life _and_ be disabled,’ she muttered.

‘Never mind queer,’ Patsy piped up.

‘You hate that word, Pats!’

‘I’m learning to love it, like my book. Em’s teaching me, as a last kind of sharing of knowledge between generations. It’s a form of activism, apparently – she calls herself a “queer crip”. I suppose I’m one too, now,’ she said, smiling conspiratorially up at Delia, aware that successfully speaking multiple sentences would delight her wife almost as much as it did her.

‘Finish your smoothie.’

Patsy lifted her head and sat up, taking the proffered straw between her teeth again, and made short work of the remaining drink. ‘Done,’ she stated with triumphant relief when she didn’t choke or dribble. ‘Now, what did you say about kissing fruit off me, my dear?’

~

 _Patsy Mount was carrying, as best she could, a rather big bouquet of sunflowers up the front steps of Nonnatus House. As she struggled to open the door under their considerable stature (and weight), it occurred to her that she did not regularly experience the sensation of things being taller than she was. The same could not be said of her girlfriend (oh, what a blissful relief it was to call her that again, even only in her head, after so many months of uncertainty!). No indeed – Delia was far more likely to be surprised when things_ weren’t _taller than she was. So these sunflowers were perfect, if not quite as perfect as the young woman herself._

_Patsy crept over the threshold and across the hall as quietly as possible, hoping to avoid attracting the attention of anyone other than the intended recipient. Especially Sister Monica Joan, since the venerable nun had almost as much of a penchant for the prettiness of flowers as she did a sweet tooth. Success – except now there were more stairs, and she couldn’t really see where she was going. Oh well, as Trixie would say, surprising one’s sweetheart was usually comprised of a certain amount of sacrifice; and there was no greater salve for her struggles than a smile from “dearest Deels”._

_She made it all the way up without incident, and only just managed to stop herself crowing in triumph at her clean execution of all the corners. Nurse Crane would have conniptions if there were any traces of flowers or foliage. No, that wasn’t fair – Patsy herself would be too punctilious to leave anything behind for her colleague to find. Cleanliness was the closest she could ever hope to get to Godliness, after all. She allowed herself a wry smile at that thought as she knocked on her beloved’s bedroom door. ‘Delia? It’s me. I know I said I’d meet you right after your shift, but I had to pick something up on the way.’_

_The door opened immediately, almost as if Delia had been leaning against it and listening for the sound of her love’s voice. ‘Pats,’ she breathed, smiling, but the tension in her tone was plain. Not bothering to wait for a response, and barely registering the fact that there were sunflowers several feet tall obscuring the already small space between them, the shorter woman grabbed her girlfriend’s wrist and pulled her inside. Then, once the door was shut, she poked her head through the stems and took a shaky breath. ‘_ Sori, cariad, _’ she said, slowly. ‘I got let off early. I started slurring again and they felt I should leave in case it disturbed the patients.’_

 _Patsy was outraged. ‘You work on male surgical. Do they not notice how much hassle_ we _go through at the hands of men whose slurs have a far more volatile, one might even say_ liquid, _cause? I’m inclined to go up there and disturb a few patients myself,’ she said through gritted teeth._

_‘Don’t you dare! As much as I appreciate your affront – no, anger! – on my behalf, I’ve only had you back a matter of months, and I couldn’t bear to lose you again just for the sake of justice. It isn’t as though this is the first instance of discrimination I’ve encountered, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. You can make it better by spending this sunny afternoon with me, albeit inside, to avoid intrusions. The flowers are fabulous, love,’ she added, ‘but not quite as fabulous as you.’_

_‘They’re heavy, too,’ Patsy said with a wink. ‘May I have something smaller and lighter to hold instead?’_

_Delia scooped up the sunflowers and deposited them in the vase on her dressing table left vacant for just such surprises. Then she turned and took Patsy’s now free hands in her own. ‘Water can wait,’ she whispered. It had been an attempt to flirt, and therefore to lighten the mood, but her voice wobbled._

_‘What is it, love? You don’t have to speak after this. I just want to know how I may best help.’_

_‘Oh – Oh Pats, it was awful. I didn’t just slur, I started dribbling too, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The doctor said everything would dissipate, didn’t he? He never intimated it might take this long. I’m terrified I’m going to be sacked and, if that happens, that I’ll be expected to leave Nonnatus. And you.’ Delia began to cry._

_‘Come here, love.’_

_‘I’ll get tears and saliva on your uniform.’_

_‘You’ve had plenty of my bodily fluids on yours. I think it’s high time I returned the favour. You are my darling, Deels, dribble or no dribble,’ Patsy coaxed, wrapping her arms around her girlfriend’s shoulders as she finally consented to the comfort of a caress. ‘You won’t get sacked. You are far too qualified and capable for that,’ she continued, despite being conscious that this was not necessarily true in their precarious (and patriarchal) profession._

_Delia seemed to detect the deliberate overstatement and raised her head to disagree. ‘Pats –’_

_‘Wait. Please. Hear me out. I’ve been worried about you being back at the London anyway, because it must surely be evoking memories of the immediate aftermath of your accident.’ Delia raised an eyebrow, but Patsy went on. ‘Believe me, I’ve had enough years of living with my own trauma to know that the strangest things can set me off, never mind being in similar situations. I’ve been wondering, well, have you thought about moving?’_

_Delia’s eyes grew wide. ‘Of course not! Then I’d_ definitely _be away from you.’_

_‘Not necessarily. Nonnatus always need new midwives, and the nuns love you.’_

_‘You mean retrain?’ Delia was incredulous._

_‘If you’d feel up to it. I think you’d be a natural, my personal bias excepted.’_

_‘You really think they’d have me?’_

_Patsy heard the tentative excitement in her girlfriend’s voice and inwardly sighed with relief. ‘Of course. You are an exceptional nurse – and they would more than happily accommodate any adjustments. Look at Sister Monica Joan. I’m not comparing you to her, I’m just illustrating the extremes that this family will go to in order to support one of their own. Which you are. Without doubt, Deels. Sister Julienne didn’t invite you to stay just to be nice to me, as much as that would gratify my ego.’_

_Delia laughed at that – at last – and cupped Patsy’s cheek to draw her down for a brief kiss. ‘_ Diolch, _darling,’ she murmured when they broke away. ‘If you feel it’s worth it, I’ll have a word with Sister Julienne tomorrow.’_

_‘I do. And I’ll come with you, if you’d like. For this afternoon, though, I think we should sit side-by-side on your bed, and converse using your communication book. We don’t want to tire out your tongue. Then we’ll go and grab some fish and chips.’_

_‘I can’t eat it any more – it’s too messy.’_

_‘I’ll kiss any remnants off you.’_

_‘I suppose that is an offer I can’t refuse,’ Delia demurred, walking over to her wardrobe to retrieve the book so carefully-crafted by her_ cariad _, and for once not caring that she still had a slight limp. Then she sat on the edge of her bed, waiting for Patsy to join, and flipped through the pages until she found the one labelled_ Pronouns _._

 _‘I,’ Patsy read as she sank into the mattress. Delia nodded, before turning through to_ Emotions _. ‘Love.’ Delia nodded. They both knew all too well what was coming next, but that was part of the beauty of this book._ Pronouns _again. ‘You.’ Patsy grinned. ‘_ Caru ti hefyd, cariad _. I love you, too, love. Sorry, I should have made you a bilingual book.’_

 _Delia shook her head, smiling. They only needed one language, and it didn’t have_ any _words._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the balance of this is right and the disability elements aren’t too overbearing. The ‘front-bottom’ discussion is based on a real chat I had with my friend Levi when we noticed that picture in her communication book. I’m not sure whether the newer books are any more accurate, but I doubt it =P!


	8. August - Vows in Verbena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As you’ll probably guess from the title, this is mostly fluff (with feelings!) surrounding anniversaries and engagements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra-long chapter, and largely a fluff-fest, to make up both for the fact that last week’s was so late, and that from here onwards things get rather tough. Hope it meets with your approval, and thanks so much for your continued support, on both a literary and a personal level.

‘I know this isn’t the way ‘round that these conversations are supposed to go, Pats, but can you remember if we have any plans today? The schedule seems suspiciously blank – I must’ve forgotten to write it down.’

Patsy’s brows shot up at the concerned tone of her wife’s question, and she tried to conceal the guilt which accompanied this particular instance of that instinctive movement. The truth was, before Trixie had left last night, she had surreptitiously asked her to rip out the page. She loved spending every moment of every day with her “darling Deels”, both awake and asleep, because goodness knew they had waited long enough to be granted the privilege to do so openly. However, such close proximity made keeping secrets from _each other_ nigh on impossible – a rather ironic reversal of fortune for a couple who were so used to hiding from everyone else. So, sometimes, subterfuge was necessary; even if certain recently-acquired conditions meant she had to seek help from her best friend to pull it off successfully.

‘Pats? Did you hear what I said, sweetheart?’ Patsy nodded, dragging herself out of her musings, and Delia smiled, relieved. ‘Shall I get your book?’

Another nod. Talking was tiring and today she needed to be alert.

‘Got it,’ Delia declared in eventual triumph once she had managed to locate the requested item. They were both perpetually bemused by the way anything and everything put into Patsy’s wheelchair bag seemed to disappear into its depths almost without trace; not least because Em had similar issues, so it couldn’t simply be put down to clumsiness. ‘Okay. Quick talk?’

A pause. There were definitely _some_ emotions on that page, but probably not the one she needed. A headshake.

‘Family and friends?’

A pause. No – well, yes, but not yet. A headshake.

‘Feelings?’

An emphatic nod, accompanied by a lopsided smile.

As she flipped through to the page, Delia return the grin, visibly delighted that it was still there. Patsy caught her look briefly before training her eyes on the boxes in an effort to speed up the conversation. Her wife picked up the cue. ‘Left for yes, right for no, remember? In line with our politics, eh, Pats?’ They shared a giggle at the idiosyncrasy of the mnemonic and then, at least for a moment, were content to sit in silent contemplation of all that it meant.  Delia only spoke again when Patsy dropped her eyes back to the page. ‘This one?’

Right.

‘This one?’

Right again.

‘This one?’

Right again. God, this was hard work, but still easier than talking; especially today.

‘This one?’

Left.

‘Surprise?’ Delia’s face mirrored the emotion she was clarifying, and Patsy couldn’t help but giggle again as she nodded. Perhaps spontaneity hadn’t scarpered quite as far out of their relationship as she had supposed. Feared? ‘But why do you need to surprise me?’

Patsy rolled her eyes at her wife’s obtuseness, hoping as she did so that she could make her body behave enough for the expression to be readable. From the guilty grin that greeted her, it would seem she had succeeded, so she returned her gaze to the book. 

‘Before or after Feelings? Move your head in the direction you want me to turn the pages.’

A nod in agreement, followed by a movement to the right.

‘After?’

A nod.

Delia turned the page. ‘Events?’

A nod.

‘This one?’

Right – no, no birthdays left this year, at least not ones to be secretive about.

‘This one?’

Left – and a wink up at her wonderful wife.

‘Wedding!? Who’s getting married?’

Patsy shook her head vehemently, and sighed, before dropping her chin towards her lap and the hands which lay in it. Delia followed her gaze, eventually noticing that it rested on the ring encircling the third finger of her right hand. They had moved it across when her left had got too difficult to manage, because she flatly refused to take it off. Of course.

‘Oh!’ Delia’s eyes and mouth grew round as she realised the significance of the signal. ‘Our anniversary?’

Patsy nodded, simultaneously exhausted by effort and euphoric with excitement. Three years since they had finally, publically, been allowed to call their union the name it had had in their heads all along – marriage.

‘But it’s tomorrow. The twenty-sixth.’

Another eye-roll, but the smile remained. Exactly, Deels. A glance at the book again, looking left to indicate going backwards.

‘Family and friends?’

A nod.

‘See, I’m not completely oblivious,’ Delia said, smirking, as she found the page. ‘It won’t be me, since I’m right here, so I’m going to guess...Trixie? And Babs? And Em?’

A gleeful grin. At last, love. Took you long enough, eh?

‘Are they coming over?’

A nod.

‘Are you going shopping?’

A half-nod.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t ask. I’m glad. It’ll give me a chance to sort some surprises of my own,’ Delia’s smirk grew wider on seeing Patsy’s shock at her words. ‘You’re not the only one skilled in subterfuge, sweetheart. I had all those years of practice alongside you. I hadn’t forgotten about tomorrow, or what _I_ have planned today, I just wanted to be sure _you_ hadn’t either.’

Patsy shook her head decisively. Never. Not after a (literal) lifetime of having only mournful memories to mark each year. She smiled, trying to shoo away the sadness suddenly seeping into her skin.

Delia saw the shift and, clapping the communication book shut, chucked it on the couch before clasping Patsy’s right hand between both of hers. ‘ _Caru ti, cariad_. What time are they coming?’

Patsy caught the quiet solidarity in the question – a suggestion that she could swim instead of sink. She was about to respond by speaking, because Delia deserved it, when the intercom buzzed.

‘Now, I take it,’ Delia laughed, lingering as long as possible with her wife’s hand in hers before walking to admit the insistent interlopers into their idyll. ‘Hello, you lot,’ she said brightly, grinning at their three friends’ faces as she pressed the button to let them into the downstairs hallway. Then she opened the door, in preparation for the onslaught of noise and niceness, noticing as she did so that she could hear two sets of shoes on the steps, and no wheels. Odd. Before she could think (over-think!) too much, though, Trixie and Babs appeared in front of her.

‘Hello, sweetie – and sweetie,’ Trixie said, shooting a glance past Delia’s shoulder to where Patsy was parked in the lounge. ‘Em’s waiting downstairs for us, as we didn’t think you’d both fit in the lift, and it’s such a lovely day that she thought she’d count how many busybodies tell her “they’re so glad to see her out and about”. A test of how far we’ve _really_ moved towards proper inclusion. I’m sure you can appreciate that, eh?’

Patsy nodded and Barbara joined in the conversation, chuckling. ‘I suppose I should be telling you all off for such morally dubious behaviour, stringing people along when you’re perfectly capable of putting them to rights before they say anything at all. But, since these sentiments so often come from those who profess to call themselves Christians, I find I can’t justifiably ask you to stop. So I’ll cringe along with you, and then chime in myself, instead.’ She winked, and the three other women were once again struck by the absurdity of the fact that they could ever have considered her nothing more than a dull, docile vicar’s daughter. How wrong they had been!

‘Well, on that strident note, I’d say you ought to be off before your determination deserts you – you don’t want to leave Em to be beleaguered for any longer than necessary, either. Besides, some of us have our own organising to do,’ Delia declared, signalling none too subtly that they should skedaddle, and sharpish.

Patsy raised an eyebrow as her wife turned to come back into the lounge and push her chair. So much for not knowing what was happening today. Clearly that had just been a trick to get _her_ to think. Delia had said something along those lines earlier. Not that she minded, not really. She needed all the memory jogs she could get, jokes or otherwise, and no-one making too big deals (Deels!) about it was the best approach she could hope for. Consistent with her own coping mechanisms – and a relief coming from the woman who had once asked, so reproachfully, why she always made light of everything. Allowing herself to slip into nostalgia for a second or two, she smiled slightly as Delia passed by her armrest, admiring the agility with which her wife walked. Not out of jealousy, as some might expect, but pride; because there had been a time when they had both thought she might never fully regain the ability. She had eventually succeeded, managing to master it enough that now, some six decades later, it hadn’t mattered when the tables turned.

Thank God.

Actually, thank the NHS, and the brilliance and resilience of the human body and brain – for both had served them well, if not in exactly the ways they might have wished. People seemed to be forgetting their luck these days, and cavalierly carving away at its coffers, when they should be cherishing the cover it gave them. Patsy was (probably somewhat perversely) glad that she likely wouldn’t live to see its last languishing. Deels, and even Em, would be okay, too, because she had used all her powers of persuasion to make them promise to take up private healthcare should the need ever arise. At her expense, of course. Not everyone was so fortunate, though, and even the sum of all the grants provided by the Foundation would fail to fill the gap in the finances of most of the families with whom they worked. Or the hospitals supporting those families. It was an absolute disgrace. The stalwart Sisters of Nonnatus would be turning in their graves, and so, soon, would she – had she not elected to be cremated.

Today, however, was not for such morbid thoughts as these. Today (and tomorrow) were for the triumph of tenacity, the temerity of tenderness. So she would keep her ponderings on practicality to herself – they were too rambling and jumbled to be of use to anyone else, anyway, and she mustn’t create _more_ difficulty. Deels was dealing with enough without the knowledge that she was having a crisis of conscience about the state of the country as well. The NHS had served them, but they had served it, too, and Patsy knew that they had done their duty. She didn’t need to shoulder that extra burden of doubtful guilt, that was for sure.

Nor did she need to delay their departure for the day any longer, as she realised with shame that Delia had already brought her out into the corridor, and was attempting to capture her attention for a proper goodbye. ‘Sorry, love,’ she murmured, more than a little sheepishly.

Her wife brushed a gentle kiss against her brow, eyes wide with mock-reproof. ‘I thought you were trying not to talk today – and what do we say about sorries? Your book’s back in your bag, by the way. Have fun, you four. Give my fellow wandering Welshwoman a _cwtch_ from me, won’t you? And you’re all invited up for tea later, Tom too. Keep warm,’ she finished with a wink, before shutting the door.

‘Keep warm?’ Trixie repeated as she walked to fill the space vacated by Delia and take over the steering of Patsy’s chair.

‘In August!?’ continued Barbara, bewildered.

Patsy merely laughed at their confusion – some things were too complex to explain via a communication book, and she wasn’t sure she really wanted to share the significance of that phrase, even if it had been simple to do so. When no reasoning was provided, the two women shrugged, and nodded in agreement with Patsy’s persistent stare towards the lift. ‘Shall we?’ Barbara asked, a little too brightly. Neither of their old friends had coped with the change in Patsy’s capability _quite_ as smoothly as Delia – or even Patsy herself. Understandable, but still irksome enough to make her glad that Em would be with them today.

There she was, as they left the lift and lobby; geared up for a day of fun in the (smatterings of) sun and grinning from ear to ear. ‘Took you long enough,’ her computer chimed in, and the sudden sound of Delia’s dulcet tones reminded Patsy of her own silent use of precisely that phrase earlier that morning. The young woman must have programmed it in whilst she was waiting for them. Clever clogs. Not for having it ready, but for using the time, and making a virtue out of necessity. Much in the same way as she found humour in people’s frequently horrendous attitudes.

The three older women chuckled at their young friend’s cheek. ‘How many people pestered you with pity in the twenty minutes we were gone, then?’ Trixie’s tone was teasing, but the sentiment behind her question was serious.

Em tapped out a reply. ‘Four. They kept asking me if I was all right, but it would’ve been too tiring to type “Yes” each time, so I just nodded and eventually they went away. For once the air of stupidity that apparently comes with a lack of speech was a useful asset.’

‘Four!? One every five minutes? It’s getting worse!’ Barbara was incensed, but Em merely listened, amused. There was no point getting upset over each individual incident, especially as early as eleven o’clock. Patsy met her gaze in silent solidarity. Soldier on, eh, young’un, the sadness in her smile seemed to say. She knew all too well that, if one gave space for feeling every emotion provoked by a situation, it would be nigh on impossible to leave the house. That wisdom had been won long before the arrival of her own wheelchair, admittedly, but, regardless of the source of a trauma, the principle remained the same.

‘I think you could do with some retail therapy, sweetie,’ Trixie cut in again. ‘King’s Road, ladies?’

‘If any of the shops will let us in,’ came Em’s rueful reply after a brief pause. ‘They can just about cope with one chair, if they have a ramp, but two might push them over the edge.’

‘Don’t they know how much money you have, Mrs Busby-Mount?’ Trixie asked with a sardonic snort. 

Patsy shook her head. Clearly not. Then she threw her head back slightly to signal that she wanted – needed – her book.

Trixie grabbed it with far more finesse and speed than Delia, better versed in finding such things thanks to the amount of time she spent with Em, who had had one at the beginning of their acquaintance. None of them would tell Delia that, of course, but then today was all about keeping (benign) secrets from Patsy’s beloved. Trixie flipped to the first page. ‘Quick talk?’

A nod.

‘This one?’

A nod.

‘Tired?’

A nod.

‘Sorry, sweetie. Well, do you actually need to buy anything?’

A headshake. Just to write something – or, rather, to get Trixie to write something. Everything else would be delivered tomorrow morning.

‘Shall we just go for ice cream? Anyone object?’

Two headshakes from Barbara and Em, followed by a pause as the younger woman worked to put some words together. ‘Absolutely – let’s _really_ give them something to stare at!’

They all laughed. That sentence sounded like something Delia might actually say. She would be proud that her voice was being used so appropriately.

‘Right then, enough dawdling, it’s time for dessert,’ Trixie trilled.

Patsy was grateful that her friend could still sense when she needed someone else to take charge. Perhaps she’d been unfair in her assessment of the former Nurse Franklin’s ability to adjust. Perhaps she was projecting her own frustrations and fatigue. Actually, no perhaps about it. Damn dementia. Damn deterioration. But at least she could still think those thoughts. Small mercies – like dessert. Life is short, eat ice cream first. She had seen that on a sign outside a shop somewhere a while ago, and thought it silly, but she now she supposed it was sincere. Then you had the sweetness to see you through the rest of the sludge, both literally and figuratively.

They were trundling along the pavement now, beginning their search for some sort of place selling ice cream. The blessing of it being relatively sunny was that they could sit outside, and therefore not have to agonise over access. Trixie or Babs could always go in and order if there wasn’t table service. If there was one thing Patsy had learnt in her life, through a combination of Delia’s gentle prods and Em’s fine (but far too young) example, it was that independence didn’t necessarily equate to doing everything on one’s own. You started there, of course, at least according to Virginia Woolf – but eventually you accepted support, and found yourself all the richer for it.

Talking of riches, as they were weaving their way through the hordes of largely oblivious Londoners and tourists who had seemingly no sense of spatial awareness (this being the curse of sunshine, and Fridays), Em was stopped by a man. He appeared already to be laughing, and her three friends stiffened, reflexively readying themselves for whatever wisdom he felt bound to impart. Em, meanwhile, stared up at him impassively, giving no sign of the whirring of her mind as she tried to deduce which of several stock scenarios might play out in this instance. The man was still laughing as he spoke. ‘Don’t get done for speeding, sweetheart,’ he said, clearly very pleased with the originality of his contribution, before moving off without giving her a chance to reply. With a glance over to her older friend which read “If I were paid a pound for every time someone made that joke, I’d have as much money as you do!”, Em sped up, and Patsy loved her for it. It was a matter of principle in the circumstances. Besides, Em could find them a spot far quicker, and not just because of speed. She was always joking about having to take the perks, and the space necessary to accommodate two wheelchairs was one of them. Mostly.

Trixie walked a tad faster, too, and Patsy relished the feeling of freedom the increased pace brought with it.  She was reminded of the time Trix had persuaded her to sit in one of Fred’s wheelbarrows and be pushed around. That had been jolly good fun, as they would have said then, and so was this. Especially with the promise of imminent ice cream. ‘Oh, look, she’s found a place,’ Trixie said, sharing in their young friend’s triumphant smile. ‘Move those chairs out the way, won’t you, Babs?’

Barbara complied, and Trixie slotted Patsy into one of the vacated spaces, before bending down to apply the brakes. As she stood upright again, she grabbed the communication book – and only then did she sit down in the seat to Patsy’s left. Em took up position in the gap on the right, turning her chair off carefully before grasping Patsy’s hand. “We made it!” her squeeze seemed to signify and, as Barbara sat down next to Em to complete their quartet, Patsy was inclined to agree. They had made it, not just for ice cream, but for friendship and fun.

‘Menus, then?’ Trixie’s question brought them all firmly back to the matter at hand, and they nodded. ‘I think I can predict what you’ll have, eh, Patsy?’ She grinned as her friend waited patiently and pensively for her pronouncement. ‘Coconut?’

Patsy nodded, smiling. It was smooth whilst still having a tinge of texture, and had a subtle but significant connection to her childhood.

‘I know you too well. Good job it’s on trend now – you’re such a hipster!’ Trixie paused, pondering, as the others giggled. ‘Mint choc chip for you, Em, and honeycomb for you, right, Babs?’

Barbara nodded briskly. ‘I’ll go, though. Yes, Patsy, it’s your wedding anniversary tomorrow,’ she added as her friend began to fuss. ‘I’ll brook neither refusal nor complaint. What do you want, Trix?’

‘Hmmm – I think I’ll have vanilla. Not boring, but the embodiment of simple purity, like me!’ Everyone rolled their eyes. ‘It’s true,’ Trixie protested, her face the picture of innocence.

‘They said they’ll bring it out to us,’ Barbara announced on her return to the table. ‘I say,’ she continued as she sat down again, ‘you three seem very serious! What on earth have you been discussing in my absence?’

‘I asked Patience here why they had waited until August to get married, instead of the very first date that they could. She tells me it was all thanks to Shakespeare, which makes no sense, because the important month for him is April! Now both she and Em are sitting in silent scorn at my ignorance,’ Trixie pouted playfully.

‘Oh, that’s easy. Patsy wrote Delia a sonnet to make up for not having told her when she’d be back from Hong Kong. Then they got engaged (really for the second time) even though it wasn’t legal in 1963. I only know that because I was still in the first flushes of newly-wedded bliss myself, so they thought they should rather share their excitement with me than with you, in case things were rocky with Christopher,’ Barbara added, aware that this could cause awkwardness between the two women, who had once confided so much in each other.

‘Very considerate of you, I’m sure,’ Trixie shot a glare sideways to her best friend, before breaking into a genuine grin. ‘You sly thing, Patsy Mount! Christopher never did anything so romantic for me. Nor Tom, for that matter,’ she said, with a sheepish smile across the table to Barbara. ‘That’s just lovely. Is that what we need to write now?’

Patsy nodded, suddenly shy.

‘Perfect. Ice cream first, though. Brain food, as Delia would say. All right?’

Another nod.

They ate as quickly as the chilly treats, and the tone of Patsy and Em’s tongues, would allow. Then, sonnet scribed, Trixie tapped out a text to the only absent member of their friendship group.

_Hello, Delia, sweetie – your wife is tired and wonders if you’d mind us coming back now? I just want to give you fair warning in case you have anything to hide away..._

The reply arrived almost immediately.

**Duly noted. Get her back here now. She needs to be in bed.**

_I won’t comment on the implications of that last sentence, especially on the eve of your wedding anniversary..._

**Mind out the gutter, Beatrix. There’s time enough for that tomorrow, true, but this afternoon’s activities will involve nothing more salacious than sleep. Now bring her home.**

_We are._

**Good.**

Once a nurse, always a nurse, Trixie thought as they started back to the flat.

When they arrived, after what seemed like an age, Trixie, Em and Barbara descended on the kitchen to make tea. Delia, meanwhile, bundled her beloved under the duvet, smothering any attempts at protest with a few firm kisses. ‘No complaints, _cariad_ ,’ she cautioned. ‘It’s my nuptial right to insist on you getting the rest you require. Especially today.’ She winked, but Patsy would not be placated. ‘I tell you what, if you’re still awake in half an hour, I’ll get you up. Okay?’

A nod. Okay.

When Delia tiptoed back into the bedroom later, once their friends had left, she was relieved (if unsurprised) to find her wife sleeping soundly. Stubborn fool, she thought, smiling fondly as she slid under the covers herself. Then they both drifted through dreams until late the next morning, waking only at the brief buzz of the intercom from down the passage.

Patsy grinned as Delia leapt out of bed. ‘ _Cachiad!_ ’ her wife swore, the sudden noise having startled her into her native language. ‘Shit. What in heaven’s name have you got delivered, sweetheart? It’d better be worth it,’ she said sullenly, stomping (albeit softly) to answer the door.

Patsy simply smirked, and lay silently waiting for her little Welshwoman’s return.

‘I forgive you,’ came the call from the corridor after a moment.

Patsy’s smirk grew wider. Yes, I thought you might, somehow.

Delia practically danced back into the room, and deposited her bounty (a selection of summer fruits, surrounded by several cuttings of verbena) on the edge of the mattress. ‘Breakfast in bed, then?’

Her wife quirked a brow in answer to the question, before shifting her gaze to her bedside table and the book which lay upon it.

‘Quick talk?’

A nod.

‘Your bag?’

Another nod, in surprise. How did she know?

Delia had turned away, though, and was already investigating. ‘Is it this?’ she asked, smoothing her hand over a slightly creased envelope, with no name or address.

Yet another nod.

‘Shall I open it?’

A headshake.

‘Shall I open it for _you_ , and hold it up so I can’t see it?’

A nod in amazement at her wife’s level of understanding, followed by a faltering breath.

‘Here. Take your time, love.’

‘I write this verse for love of “Dearest Deels”,

as a sincere renewal of my vows,

in thanks for putting up with my new wheels,

and sticking with me through the highs and lows.

’Tis ref’rencing both three, and sixty, years

which is the true time you’ve been by my side,

teaching me about laughter amid tears, 

and how I might accept myself with pride.

Whenever I have moments where I ponder

the great importance that you hold for me,

I’m always overcome by your Welsh wonder,

and by how lucky life has let me be.

In all the world, I’m sure, my _cariad_ ,

no other woman lives who I’d’ve marri-ed.’

As Patsy reached the end of the final line, she slumped slightly, a reflexive release of tension now that her secret was successfully discharged. Delia let the paper flutter gently from her fingers, then cupped her wife’s chin to steady its shakes with a kiss. ‘ _Diolch_ , darling,’ she whispered when they both came up for air. ‘That was bloody brilliant, and beautiful, like you. I couldn’t’ve asked for a more appropriate anniversary gift. I’ll even forgive you for the frightful pun in the final couplet. Just about. It also makes you not speaking that much over the last two days worth it. I have some presents of my own, and then I suppose we should think of dressing before the influx of visitors begins for the afternoon. Although I must admit I’m not quite ready to get up yet – are you?’

Patsy shook her head. No, Deels – definitely not.

~

_‘Pats, love, however did you manage it so we’re both off on a Monday afternoon, of all times? And, more to the point, why?’_

_It was the 26 th August 1963. Delia Busby and Patsy Mount were walking home (home!) to their flat from Nonnatus House after mutually busy shifts, and marvelling at the summer sunshine as it bounced off the buildings beside them. _

_Patsy paused a moment before replying to her girlfriend’s (admittedly perfectly legitimate) query, her attention caught by the vividness of some verbena that was creeping up the back wall of a particularly picturesque house. It reminded her of a photo she had found whilst clearing out the attic in the Hong Kong property – a task she could obviously have left to the steward’s team, but which she had felt compelled to complete personally. She was so glad she had, too, because otherwise she would not have seen the photo, which she had then pocketed and brought back to Poplar. It was of the ancestral home, apparently, if families of such relatively new money as hers could lay claim to those sorts of things. Somewhere in Sussex – or was it Surrey? Her British geography had always been abysmal; but she supposed that was unsurprising given that she had grown up, in a manner of speaking, so far away. In any case, it must have been taken on a day like today, because even the primitive exposure of the early camera had succeeded in capturing the sublime scene and sunshine, along with the verbena. It was far less vivid than the one here, of course, but then black and white tended to be. So she shook off her doubts about destiny, and decided that she had somehow stumbled on the perfect place to, well, propose. Half-propose, since the majority would have to wait until they were home, but propose nonetheless. That’s what any other couple would call it, wouldn’t they? Naturally they’d have a much longer (indefinite?) engagement than that “any other couple”, and acceptance wasn’t half as assured, no matter what Delia had said the last time this subject was broached. But it was worth a try..._

_‘Since you’re too thoughtful to answer my questions, may I at least offer you a penny for what’s making you pensive?’_

_Delia’s tone was tender, but Patsy startled, and then smiled sheepishly. ‘Sorry, sweetheart, I was miles away. Several thousand, in fact. This morning, before we left, I was sorting through some of the last boxes I brought back with me from Hong Kong. I found three things – a photograph of a wall very like the one we’re standing next to now, part of what was once the Mount family countryside residence; the sonnets we sent back-and-forth whilst I was gone; and something else. I’ve never forgiven myself for not writing the last one in the cycle of ten, but since I’ve been back I simply haven’t had the right mindset. Until today. So, I want you to take this envelope, on the proviso that you won’t open it before we are inside,’ she said, aware she was stammering but seemingly unable to stop herself._

_‘All right,’ Delia demurred as she took the small package reverently in her palm, ‘on_ my _proviso that you’ll run with me? We aren’t in uniform.’_

_‘Fair swap,’ Patsy rejoined, though she was already breathless with anticipation._

_They did indeed run, skidding to a halt only when they nearly slammed into their own front door. ‘Whoops,’ Delia giggled delightedly whilst Patsy found the key, ‘I hope none of our patients – or, more importantly, their children – saw that!’_

_Patsy said nothing until the door was unlocked, and relocked, now with them behind it. Then she took Delia’s face in her hands. ‘They’d better not see this, either,’ she purred, before dipping her head to her girlfriend’s for a brief kiss._

_‘To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from “Passionate Pats”?’ Delia asked coyly as they parted, receiving a slight slap on her shoulder for her cheek._

_‘Open it,’ was all the explanation offered._

_Delia did as asked, sliding the single sheet of paper out of the envelope she hadn’t realised she’d been clutching so tightly._

_‘Careful,’ Patsy cautioned, ‘there’s something else in there. I’ll get that out whilst you read it. Aloud, if you can – I would but, well, I can’t quite get my words together. Verbally, at least.’_

_Delia proffered the envelope, which Patsy took as the younger woman found the first line – and her voice. ‘If you’re sure I’ll do it justice.’_

_‘I’m not sure_ I _would, love,’ Patsy confided, chuckling. ‘I’m not sure I_ have _– that’s why I’ve finally written this.’_

_Delia nodded, convinced, and began to recite, hiding her face, and falters, behind the page._

_‘Consider this verse my_ Apologia _,_

_styled on your fellow Welshie, Wilfred Owen,_

_for leaving you without the slightest knowledge here_

_of when I would return from ’cross the ocean._

_I know that I do not deserve forgiveness_

_or any other boon you might bestow;_

_Yet, still, I hope, these lines may show my willingness_

_to follow you where’er you choose to go._

_For, tho’ my Father’s house was full of tears,_

_amidst all that, it somehow seemed to sing_

_in homage to the love of yesteryears;_

_a bond, for me, best held within this ring._

_To compensate the feelings you have carried,_

_I don’t suppose you’d think of getting married?’_

_As the final line reached its finish, Delia peeked around the sheet, which was now quivering as much as her eyes and lips. The sight which greeted her only served to increase her emotion._

_Patsy was kneeling, a single palm outstretched, on which there lay an ornate engagement ring. ‘It was my Mother’s,’ the older woman began with soft simplicity. ‘Apparently they hid it away in her underwear before the invasion, because Father knew something was coming, even if he wasn’t wary enough to leave. I’m still surprised it survived the camps, but then I’m equally unsure how_ I _did. She must have given it to me to hide at some point, too, but I don’t remember that. Or Father taking it away again afterwards, for that matter.’_

 _Delia gazed down at her girlfriend as she rambled, and decided she couldn’t have asked for a more perfect proposal. Even if they couldn’t actually act on it, at least for now. It was the sentiment that mattered, and maybe one day... Nodding, all she knew was that, in this moment, she was perfectly content. ‘Yes,_ cariad _, of course I’ll marry you. You may have been a stubborn fool, but you’re_ my _stubborn fool, and I wouldn’t want you any other way. Now get up, Pats, your poor knees! I want to feel that ring around my finger at least once, you know, love.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this was sufficiently fluffy – and also, that the poetry doesn’t feel too out of character. If you haven’t read the cycle Patsy references but would like to, it’s also on here, and called ‘Solace in Sonnets’. Pity any future partner of mine, hehe – they’re going to get a lot of poems written for them!


	9. September - I Miss You in Marigolds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delia’s best-laid plans are (temporarily) derailed by sudden sickness on Patsy’s part, and the time it takes to complete personal care.
> 
> Content Note for vomit and (separate, unrelated, and much vaguer) incontinence. (I really know how to sell my updates, don’t I!? Seriously, though, please don’t read if these topics are difficult for you, I won’t be offended.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early but long update this week, principally because if I don’t post this now, I never will. I was only brave enough to write it as a result of the overwhelmingly lovely feedback on last week’s, and because I felt I’d be doing the story (and you!) a disservice if I left it out. 
> 
> Personal care, and the intimacy involved, isn’t something we’re happy to feature often in literature, let alone in fanfic (the wonderful writing of Evenatango and Echo7 being notable and much-appreciated exceptions to that). It is isn’t fluffy, and it certainly isn’t sexy, but neither is it necessarily angsty. It IS a huge part of many people’s lives, though (mine and [my version of] Patsy’s included). So, as you have all been incredibly kind about my commitment to representation in this fic, hopefully you’ll appreciate this as an honest (if very scary for me!) continuation of that project. I don’t think I’ve ever been as nervous as I am about this chapter... Eek!

On Sunday 3rd September 2017, Delia Busby-Mount woke to find herself (probably rather unreasonably) filled with hope. Today brought with it the second incarnation of the fully-accessible and –inclusive sporting event known as Parallel London, a family-friendly fun-run/push held at the former Olympic Park in Stratford East. There were several different categories and distances, and they were planning to go along to support Em as she walked the 100m in her frame, to raise money for the Foundation and honour the memory of her many “lost” friends. The young Welshwoman had always been devastated that power-chair users weren’t permitted to participate in the charities’ section of the London Marathon, and walking twenty-six miles was far beyond the realms of possibility, so this had seemed like the next best thing. Patsy had been incandescent with pride and excitement when she mentioned that she was going to sign up. In fact, she had remained excited ever since, the prospect of Em’s walk being one of the few things which could reliably coax her to engage in conversations – even as her condition entered the later stages of its progression. Delia’s strategy this morning, therefore, was to wake her wife in the usual manner (with a soft _cwtch_ and some swift _cusan_ ) and then to remind her that the long-awaited day had finally dawned. When she rolled over onto her right side to do just that, however, she discovered that Patsy was already awake – somehow having got herself lying on her back and seeming distinctly out of sorts, even by the (admittedly somewhat skewed) standards of their “new normal”.

‘Okay, _cariad_?’ she asked, reaching reflexively for the communication book which had now taken up semi-permanent residence on either one of their two bedside tables, and flipped it open. It helpfully fell on exactly the page she thought they would need – likely a result of its steadily-increasing use – but she still ought to check. ‘Quick talk?’

A slight blink in place of a nod. That was enough for now.

‘This one?’

No blink.

‘This one?’

No blink.

‘This one?’ Delia knew the slow pace was frustrating for both of them (for Patsy far more so than for her). Yet she was also acutely aware of the importance of accuracy in situations like these. More haste would definitely equate to less speed – and potentially medically-problematic misunderstandings.

No blink.

‘This one?’

A blink.

‘Sick? Do you think you’re going to vomit?’

A nod now, followed by a retch at the strain of the sudden movement.

Delia was already in “Nurse Mode”, swapping the communication book for one of the cardboard bowls which had also taken up regular stations on their bedside tables. She was almost relieved, although of course she never liked to see her sweetheart in any kind of discomfort, no matter its source or severity. Still, this she could cope with – a symptom she understood, and had seen before (albeit not for quite some years). It resulted from the combined onslaught of Patsy’s cognitive distress at not knowing where she was when she first woke, and its neuro-physiological manifestation in a lack of spatial awareness. It threw her vestibular system for a loop, and the only reasonable response was sudden nausea.

‘I’m going to leave this by your head for now, just in case, but I’d really like to get you propped up on some pillows. Do you think you have enough spoons to move that much?’ The question referenced their second, more recently-adopted, metaphorical usage of their mutual favourite cutlery – “spoons” were a byword for energy reserves.   

A hesitant nod.

‘Only if you’re certain, _cariad_. I don’t want to provoke any more problems for you. And no, I don’t care about cleaning. If you need to throw up, you throw up, okay?’

An even more hesitant nod.

‘Seriously, Pats, of all the people’s puke I’ve had to deal with over the years, yours would definitely be the most welcome. It’d actually mark – if you’ll pardon the phrasing – a watershed moment in our relationship. I don’t think it’s ever happened before, despite _me_ being sick on _you_ several times. You’re usually as neat and tidy in this as you are in all other areas.’

A slight smile at that. It made a change from their usual balance of support, then, at least in this regard.

‘So, are you happy to sit up?’

A nod.

Delia pulled back the duvet slightly to create some more room to manoeuvre, before tucking her wife’s legs up so that she was almost forming a bridge with her knees. ‘I’ll support you under your arms if you shift your bum back a bit, okay?’ It was a roundabout way of doing things, but it was _their_ way now, and it worked. Comfort was infinitely more important than efficiency. Especially as getting Patsy upright was actually the easy bit. Making sure she stayed there was significantly trickier. It involved practically pinning her against the headboard with copious amounts of cushions and, when all this needed to be accomplished whilst she was also feeling woozy, it was no mean feat. Eventually they managed it, though, and did so having somehow maintained a sort of equilibrium in terms of positioning. Delia wanted to shout with relief at their success, but that would have been neither sensible nor sensitive, so she refrained. Instead, she simply checked in with her wife, using the usual question. ‘Okay, _cariad_?’

A blink. Yes, just about. Oh – no, actually...

‘Oh, Pats, you’ve gone pale. Hang on, I’ll just –’ Delia didn’t get the chance to finish that sentence, however. In the mere moment it took her to move the bowl from its spot next to the space formerly occupied by her wife’s head, Patsy was sick – not much, but enough to hit both her pyjama shirt and the edge of the duvet only recently, and diligently, retucked around her. ‘Whoops, maybe my reflexes aren’t as good as I think any more,’ Delia said as she at last got the bowl under her wife’s chin, in an only half-joking effort to shift the blame immediately onto herself – because it was her fault for not being fast enough. ‘Sorry, sweetheart, we’ll sort you out. Not until you feel completely fine again, of course, there’s no point. I’m impressed, though – you still haven’t got any on me!’

Patsy’s total lack of a response to the attempted humour made it clear that she was about as far from fine as she could get – and this was confirmed when she started retching again.

‘You’re okay, _cariad_ , I’ve got you,’ Delia promised as she stood beside the bed, stroking soothing circles on her wife’s back with her free hand and keeping the bowl steady with the other. ‘It’s just bile – you haven’t got anything more in you to bring up, really. You’re okay.’ She wasn’t sure how much of her speech Patsy was registering at this point, but it was important to say reassuring things in the hope that they would be heard. She paused, inhaling and exhaling deeply in an effort to encourage the same from her wife. It was a simple and effective tool, mostly, and today was one of the “mostly” days, thank goodness. ‘That’s it. Breathe with me. Slowly, mind. We can’t have you hyperventilating as well. In... Out... In... Out... You’re okay, _cariad_ , I’ve got you.’ Repetition seemed to help, too, if not with the physical symptoms of disorientation and nausea then with the panic they provoked.

The only solution for the actual sickness seemed to be to wait it out.

So they did.

Breath by breath.

Shudder by shudder.

Retch by retch.

Dribble by dribble.

‘I’m here. Holding you tight.’

The calm, when it at last arrived, did so almost as unexpectedly as the crisis itself had appeared - if only because Patsy’s body no longer had the energy to sustain all of these sensations. Delia stopped rubbing her back to catch her chin as it drooped towards her chest, not caring in the slightest if her own fingers got covered. That was what water was for – or wet wipes. ‘Okay, _cariad_?’ she whispered.

A blink.

‘Shall we get you cleaned up, then?’

Another blink.

‘I’ll just put this bowl on the chest of drawers, and grab the loo roll whilst I’m at it. You can watch me as I walk over there, and I’ll keep my eyes on you, too.’ Patsy had recently become petrified of falling out of bed – falling anywhere, for that matter – but there was only so much Delia could feasibly cram onto their bedside tables. They therefore locked eyes, and Patsy sat in silent terror. Sensing her wife’s discomfort when she returned, Delia smiled slightly, before beginning to sing softly as she twined some of the tissue around her hand. ‘Rolling, rolling, rolling toilet paper...’ she trailed off briefly as Patsy’s eyes lit up at the familiar sound of the chorus from _Proud Mary_ – well, the tune, at least. ‘I think we’ll call that version “Proud Deels”, because I am. Proud of you, I mean. For putting up with all this. I know you don’t like me saying it, Pats, but it’s true,’ she continued, defiant in her decisiveness as she wiped her wife’s face. Then, its cleanliness almost restored, she poked Patsy’s cheek with an unused edge of the paper before lobbing it, somehow successfully, into the bowl on the chest of drawers. ‘There, look, all gone. Shower?’

A blink.

‘Thought so. Couple of things to tackle first, though – starting with this duvet cover. I won’t put it in the wash until we’re both up; I just want to get it off the bed.’

A blink in understanding and approval as Delia busied herself with the buttons on the bedclothes.

‘Right then, Missus, you next. Shirt off –’

A blink, followed by a pause for Delia to fight with different buttons on a different kind of clothes.

‘Hurrah! Let’s get you lying down again, and I’ll sort your pad, okay?’

Another blink, and they began reverse of the manoeuvre they had managed not very deftly earlier. How was it that getting down always seemed easier than getting up? Gravity?

‘There. Comfy, _cariad_?’

A blink. Thank you, darling.

‘Good - and you’re welcome, because I can glimpse the gratitude in your eyes, even though it isn’t necessary. Now, I need to go and get the stuff, so do you feel safe enough to lie there without me looking at you? I’ll only be as far away as the chest of drawers again, obviously, but I have to concentrate to make sure I don’t forget anything.’

A blink, after which Delia sprinted across the room to gather up all the essential items as quickly and as carefully as she could.

‘I’m back! Thank you for being brave, love.’

A blink. Right. Time to get down to business.

‘Ready?’

Another blink. As I’ll ever be.

‘I’m going to roll you on to your right side, just to pull your trousers down, and get this underneath you,’ Delia said softly, gesturing to the inco sheet currently draped over the side of the mattress.

A blink in resignation. Bloody thing. Far be it from the formerly fastidious “Nurse Mount” to begrudge any additional protective measures, but those sheets were just so synthetic. And scratchy. Admittedly, the ones they had used during labours hadn’t been much better, so at least she now had some understanding of why the mothers had complained. In her case there was no point, however, because there was no alternative – and it would only cause Delia distress to think that _she_ was distressed. So, as per usual, the only decent thing to do was to put up and shut up. Have a little patience, Patience.

‘And onto your back again. Okay, _cariad_?’

A blink.

‘Sure? We can shift your position a little if you’d like before I start.’

No blink. Just get it over with. But actually...why aren’t you wearing gloves? You normally wear gloves! You _should_ be wearing gloves!

‘Don’t get stressed, sweetheart, I can see that mind of yours whirring away with worry.  I know I’ve been wearing gloves. As of today I’m _not_ wearing them, for two very good reasons. The first is practical – your skin has become so sensitive now, and I don’t want to catch you by accident. Even the smallest broken area would be at major risk of infection, which we really can’t afford, especially if your sickness in the mornings has decided to resurface for good. The second is personal – I might be a nurse by training, but by nature I’m your wife, and I can best _marry_ those two aspects of my identity by washing my hands thoroughly. With this alcohol gel in the first instance, so I don’t have to leave you lying here between each stage, and then with good old-fashioned soap and water afterwards. Happy?’ Delia waited, concerned that the level of detail might be too much to take in, but also hoping that it would trigger memories and therefore stimulate some sense that Patsy was still cared for, safe, and (crucially) in control.

A blink. Darling Deels had clearly thought this through as carefully as she was now promising to wash her hands.

‘Good – because I’m not putting those flimsy things on. So, if you really want me to wear gloves, you’ll have to make do with marigolds. I know there’s an image in your book for something down here which looks like washing up, but it definitely isn’t, and I don’t think you’d want me doing it with them on. Just a hunch I have...’

The deadpan tone was enough to elicit a chuckle. Trust Delia to make her feel better by mentioning the picture symbol for masturbation that they had found online and printed out.

‘That’s sufficient raunch for now. Back to practicalities, I’m afraid, Pats. Are you ready?’

A blink.

‘All right then, love, I’ll be as quick as I can.’ A pause. ‘Could you relax your legs a little for me?’ Delia knew she could easily have made the required movement herself, but it was advisable to work _with_ spasms rather than against them, and it was also important to encourage Patsy to keep her muscle memory going for as long as possible. ‘Go on, you know you want to,’ she coaxed, tickling the underside of her wife’s right knee. The touch was the perfect prompt. ‘That’s my gorgeous girl – good job! Right, it’s off, you can take a moment to breathe before the next bit. But then would you be okay with me giving you a speedy wash here as well as in the shower?’

Such questions as these needed to be delicately phrased. Delia felt that she was performing an increasingly complex juggling act between pragmatism and protectiveness nowadays, desperate to defend her wife’s dignity whilst also knowing that compromises had to be made for the sake of her care routines and their proper completion. Still, it seemed a damn shame that her proud Pats, so particular about privacy, protocols and presentation, could no longer clean herself, let alone anything else. Fuck you, neurology, she thought, if not for the first time in her life, then for the first time since her accident. Fuck you – but, briefly lowering her gaze, she hid her frustration behind the façade of a smile.

Patsy’s tactic. Yet, when Delia raised her head again, she was greeted by the sight of tears trickling down her wife’s cheeks. Grabbing the alcohol gel to cleanse her hands quickly, she ripped a few squares from the loo roll that she had conveniently left nearby on the bed, and moved around the edge of the mattress so she was in a more appropriate position to offer both comfort and cleanliness. ‘Oh, _cariad_. I’m sorry this is so tough for you,’ she said simply as she dabbed away at Patsy’s eyes. ‘I’m doing my best to make it more bearable, I promise.’

A blink, now that she had stopped crying enough to make the movement distinctive. Believe me, I know, and I love you for it.

‘ _Caru ti hefyd, cariad._ Mind if I borrow a bit of this?’ Laughing in spite of the fact that her own tears were now falling, Delia waved the tissue, realising as she did that it was already rather damp. Not that she cared, because it was only going to get more so. ‘We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?’ she continued, chuckling, ‘but that’s good, because we’re in this together. We have all the time we need; I’m not rushing you. It’s just, it’s September, and I don’t want you to get cold because I’ve left you stark naked for too long. And we have to do it at some point, love.’

A blink. I know. Much as I hate to admit it. And how on earth do you manage to turn even the most mundane statement into an innuendo?

‘At least the wash means I won’t have to put another pad on immediately, because you’re going straight into the shower.’

Another blink. I like the way you think, Deels – anything to extend the brief bubble of normality.

‘And then I can just chuck you back on the bed afterwards.’

Yet another blink. I don’t deserve you.

‘Yes you do, Pats – what you don’t deserve is all of this shit.’

No blink. No – and neither do you. Literally.

‘I promised to be “Your dependable and devoted Deels”, didn’t I? In sickness and in health. I don’t mind. At all. I’d actually far sooner do it than subject you to anyone else. That’s the first feeling I remember post-accident – the shame of having strangers stare at the most secret parts of myself.’ A pause to make sure every single syllable was sinking in, and then she barrelled on before she could lose her bravery. ‘I understand. Just like with your dysarthria, I’ve been here too. I know you’re feeling extra self-conscious this morning because you were sick, but we’ve been doing this every day since May, my love. Besides, as I’ve been looking at your bum for the last sixty years and have yet to be put off, I think you can spare your blushes. So stop stalling, sweetheart, please. The quicker we get this done, the quicker we can both be showered, and the quicker we can get to Stratford to watch Em walk. Okay?’

A decisive blink this time. She’s walking today? Well, in that case, I suppose we ought to get a wiggle on. Okay.

Delia bit back a sigh of relief as she walked to the bottom of the bed again, resorting instead to the further wiles of Welsh. ‘ _Diolch, cariad._ I promise I’ll be super speedy. Are wet wipes all right? They might be a bit chilly, but we can get you warm again in the shower, and I thought you’d prefer that to me leaving you whilst I run water for a flannel. Correct?’

A blink. Correct.

‘Relax your legs again for me, then, would you? Perfect, Pats. Just stay still for roughly thirty seconds... Well done, darling, we’re all finished – and I’m washing my hands again with the gel. Now, that wasn’t _too_ terrible, was it?’

No blink. No, I’m sorry I built it up.

‘I can tell you’re apologising without you even saying the word, you know. You don’t have to be sorry, I can see it smarts, and not just emotionally. Would you like some cream on? It’s calendula – more marigolds, my love,’ Delia murmured, smiling.

A blink and the slightest twitch of a smile in return.

‘Thought so. There, does that ease it a little? I’ll reapply it before we get you dressed, too.’

Another blink.

‘Good. Now, I’ll just grab your shower chair, shall I? Are you safe enough for me to leave you for a minute?’

A blink. I think so...

‘I’ll run – but I’ll wash my hands properly whilst I’m in there.’

Delia did just that, and came back carting one more of the many contraptions with which they were both becoming increasingly intimately-acquainted. They had bought it as soon as they realised that the wall-mounted seat in the wet room of their en suite wasn’t going to offer sufficient stability for much longer. No wonder Em was so wary of going on holiday, what with all the stuff she’d need to take. That was such a shame, too, because she had a really adventurous spirit – and she’d had far many more years of this to manage. Patsy felt rather pathetic for struggling to adjust to a simple shower chair (admittedly on top of a lot of other things), but she knew Em would swat her if she told their younger friend about her guilt.

‘Everything’s relative, Pats,’ her wife said suddenly, and Patsy was struck by the fact that Delia’s words were probably extremely close to the phrase Em would have used. Not only were the Welsh wise, but they were now apparently telepathic, as well. Go figure. ‘Your worries are valid and completely understandable,’ Delia continued, ‘but for now let’s wash them away in the shower. I’m going to swing your legs over the edge of the bed, sit you up, and then we’ll transfer. Let me just put the brakes on. Okay?’

A blink. Okay. _Diolch, Deels_.

‘Up we go. Steady now, sweetheart. Yes, Pats, that’s such a strong stand! And barefoot as well! _Daliwch ati, cariad_ – keep going, love! We’re nearly there...and you can sit down. Slowly, mind, I don’t want you ending up on the floor after we’ve successfully navigated so much this morning. Comfy?’

A blink once Patsy was sitting. Phew.

‘Ready? I’ll get rid of all this paraphernalia afterwards.’

Another blink. Ready.

‘Is it okay if I join you?’ Delia asked as she strapped Patsy in before pushing her through to the bathroom. ‘I’m rather sweaty too, and it’d make sense, because I’m going to get soaked anyway.’

A blink. Of course, love. When have I ever turned down a shower with you?

‘I’ll park you here so you’re secure against the wall, because the wheels get a bit slippy, even with the brakes on. And you can have this to smell as a distraction whilst I get undressed,’ Delia chuckled, grabbing an as yet unused bar of Pears soap and placing it on her palm just under Patsy’s nose. Smiling, her wife took a grateful sniff, before sitting upright so she would be safe and self-sufficient enough to allow her “dearest Deels” to contend with her own clothes.

As the Welshwoman started to take her pyjama shirt off, though, she heard a small sound – so stopped mid-battle with a button. ‘Okay, _cariad_?’

Meeting her wife’s gaze steadily for the first time that morning, Patsy nodded and (with a gentle grin of the sort Delia had not thought she would see again), spoke a single, but completely lucid and coherent, word. ‘Mother.’

‘Yes, Pats, that smell is from your Mam,’ Delia agreed, before adding a silent coda for herself: and you, _cariad_ , it’ll always make me think of you. Then, pulling herself back to the here and now, she basked in the glory of the gift she was being given in this present moment – because, however distant its source might seem to be, she couldn’t be anything but delighted at the sudden animation on her most beloved of faces, and the unexpected clarity of both thought and speech. Thanks to dysarthria, it was a long time indeed since she had heard the crisp consonants of that particularly Pats style of Received Pronunciation; and, though she had noticed its absence in the abstract, she hadn’t realised how much she’d missed it on a more mundane level. It was the little things, clearly, that took them back – like Pears soap, bleach, and (of course!) marigolds, both the flowers and the gloves.

She must hang on to this sort of happiness. She knew she must, for she needed it to carry them both through. Yet, as was so often the case with any such exquisite emotion, it also forced her to acknowledge, and accept, the existence of its opposite. Suddenly overwhelmed, she was grateful for the cover provided by undoing the remainder of the buttons on her shirt. As she concentrated on each individual hole, her precise movements called to mind all the times she had playfully scorned Patsy’s preference for order and organisation. ‘Oh, my love,’ she murmured, pulling the material over her mouth slightly, to muffle the sound. ‘How I miss you in marigolds!’

~

 _On the morning of Tuesday 3 rd September 1957, Delia Busby woke to a state of utter confusion. She was in a room at the Nurses’ Home of the London (that much was certain from the peeling paint on the ceiling and walls) but it was not _her _room. Nor was the single bed in which she lay_ her _bed although, being standard issue, it was basically identical. When she permitted herself a slightly prolonged peek at her surroundings and saw the blonde hair of the young (albeit older) woman curled up close in front of her, however, that confusion transformed immediately into contentment. Patsy. She was in Patsy’s room. Last night, like so many nights over the two years they had been both fellow students and friends, she had heard frightened shouts through their shared wall. Then, as equally many times before, she had tiptoed barefoot along the corridor, unable to care a jot about curfew when someone so dear to her was in distress. The difference, this morning (as evidenced by the simple fact that it_ was _morning), was that that lack of care had clearly continued past her usual vigil. She seemed to have allowed herself to fall asleep, abandoning their usual agreement of staying awake (and in Patsy’s room!) for only as long as it took the older woman to drop off. Whoops – yet she somehow couldn’t summon up what she supposed Matron would consider the correct amount of guilt. If it meant her friend had managed a night with no further disturbances, it was worth it, and that appeared to be the case. Indeed, from the measured breathing Delia could feel when she fleetingly pressed a palm against Patsy’s back, she was likely still sleeping even now._

_As their lecturers and senior colleagues were forever reminding them, though, assumptions were dangerous – and potentially medically-problematic – things to make. The younger woman therefore disregarded her desire to stay snuggled up. Duty, whether to a patient or a friend who just happened to be called Patience, had to come first. So, slowly snaking her way out from underneath the covers (which, coincidentally, she was sure she had started out lying on top of), she then sped up as her feet hit the floor. She needed to bolt around to the other side of the small bed, both for stealth and as a safeguard against the sudden chill._

_The sight which greeted her once she got there confirmed that she had been correct to check. Not only was Patsy already awake, but her eyes were glassy and unfocussed. Moreover, from the front it was obvious that the movement originally taken for measured breath was in fact an apparently ineffectual attempt to avoid a further bout of anxiety; or possibly even something else. ‘All right, Pats?’_

_The concerned question was at least enough to provoke a response from her friend – if not one anything like she might have expected. Patsy leapt out of bed with such force that she almost vaulted over the shorter girl’s shoulders. She then sprinted across the room, only coming to a sudden halt as she found the solidity of the sink, into which she proceeded to be violently (if quietly) sick._

_Once her initial surprise had passed, Delia deliberated a moment over whether or not she should follow her friend. Eventually she decided that she could not, no, ought not, do anything without consent, and so offered one further question accompanied by a reason for asking. ‘Pats, would you be happy for me to stand behind you? I won’t touch you any more than feels comfortable, I just think it might help if I held your hair back to get it out the way. Raise your hand if the reply is positive – I don’t think it’s wise for you to nod or shake your head right now.’_

_Patsy held up her left hand, having already unconsciously occupied her right in attempting to deal with her own hair, and marvelled at her friend. Without even the barest beginnings of an explanation, “Deels” was just_ there _, dependable and (dare she say it?) devoted, ready to offer any assistance if and when required. The sickness cancelling out her usual propensity towards guilt, she found herself overwhelmed with its opposite – gratitude. Whilst she still didn’t quite feel she deserved such support, she was nevertheless extremely glad it had been offered._

_At the signal, Delia walked to the suggested position and took the weight of the taller woman’s hair, resisting the impulse to rest her own head against Patsy’s back as an additional gesture of comfort. When Patsy shifted her right hand down to the sink again, though, the tangle of her as yet untamed bed-head ensured that their fingers touched – and both women could have sworn that they felt the other steal the slightest of squeezes. ‘I’m wondering if you’d like me to rub your back, too, since I’m here now? Just the very top, around your shoulders? I won’t if you don’t want me to, and I won’t mind either way.’ Channelling a little of the forthright attitude afforded by her Welsh heritage, Delia had decided that, if compassion outweighed curfew, it also outweighed coyness. She was consequently more than a little relieved when the brief downward dip of her friend’s head (and the hair she was holding) informed her that she hadn’t misjudged her suggestion._

_‘All right, sweetheart,’ she murmured. Then, twining Patsy’s hair around her left hand to free up her right, she began stroking soothing circles in an effort to coax back some level of calm. ‘You’re all right. I’ve got you,’ she promised earnestly, the words somehow matching up with the movement to form something akin to a rhythm. That gave her another idea. ‘Pats, forgive me if this language comes across as odd, or overly frank. I’m only using it because I know you feel safer with accurate terminology than with euphemisms. It seems to me that this is mostly bile. That makes sense, as you have nothing especially substantial in you to bring up, but the problem with it is that continual but largely ineffectual retching is only going to hurt your throat. So, I’d like you to try and take some breaths between each urge, and hopefully the gaps will get bigger each time. It sounds almost like your muscles are going into spasm, and that the panic is what is making you want to puke. Does that make sense?’_

_The briefest of nods. It does – and I’ll explain, Deels, I promise. Just as soon as I... Patsy’s silent thoughts trailed off as she was struck by another wave of nausea._

_‘I’m here. Holding you tight. I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re all right.’ The unintentional rhyme and repetition at last appeared to be doing the trick, combined as they were with the backrub, because Patsy began to breathe as Delia suggested. ‘That’s it. In... Out... In... Out... Slowly, mind. No hyperventilating, thank you very much, Student Nurse Mount. That’s better. Brava, Pats, the gaps are getting bigger. Your name isn’t Patience for nothing, is it?’_

_The last vestiges of her discomfort and sickness having disappeared by the time Delia asked that half-joking question, Patsy was able to offer a tentative laugh in reply – whilst also biting back the desire to tell her friend of her recurring surprise at how unexpectedly lovely her full name sounded when graced with a Welsh lilt. As a distraction, she briefly turned on one of the taps, to start restoring the sink to its (her) usual standards of cleanliness. Later, she would need to scour everything – her hands with soap, and the sink with some significantly stronger substances – but that could wait a bit. For now, the only necessity was conversation. So, lifting her gaze to meet the one reflected behind her in the mirror, she spoke, acutely aware that Delia deserved both an apology and an explanation. ‘Sorry, Deels, you aren’t normally still here when that happens,’ she said by way of a beginning._

_‘No, but I’m very glad I was.’_

_‘Me too, if I’m honest. It usually takes an awful lot longer to subside.’_

_‘I don’t mean to pry, but does it happen regularly? I’ve never heard it before, and these walls are very thin – but then_ you _are very quiet.’_

_Patsy smiled ruefully. ‘I suppose I am. I’ve had to be. It’s even more embarrassing than my nightmares.’_

_‘So they’re linked, then?’_

_‘I think they must be – every morning, when I first wake, there’s a rather lengthy period of time when I genuinely don’t know where I am, and my body thinks nausea is the only logical reaction. Not just any ordinary disorientation, either. It seems to affect me physically, possibly even neurologically, because any movement exacerbates it. I have to lie there, stock still, and hope against hope I don’t throw up; or, if I do, that I’ll make it to the sink in time. Thank goodness we have them in our rooms, and I can walk fast. I’m not entirely sure what causes it, but my suspicions are that it’s an extension of my more general response to the camps,’ Patsy paused a moment, pondering how much of a relief it was to have one person to whom she could talk about these sorts of things. Then, encouraged by the kindness she could see in Delia’s eyes, she continued. ‘There’s just such a big gap between my sense of self in those damn dreams and my sense of self awake – or standing next to you. That probably isn’t even vaguely comprehensible, but... Oh, Deels, could I have a hug please? I need to know I’m_ here _and not_ there _.’_

_‘It makes perfect sense,’ Delia said softly but decisively, pulling her friend back from the sink slightly to comply with her request. ‘You’re here, and I’m here, and I’ve got you. I’ll have to brave the corridor to go and get dressed now, but you’ll want to get things cleaned up, anyway. I’ll be back as quickly as I can be, and we can head off to together, all right?’ She waited for the older (and yet so very young) woman’s affirmative nod before releasing her from their hug. Then she skipped across to the door, and opened it, winking. ‘Wish me luck!’_

_Patsy watched the door whilst it closed, shaking her blonde head, both amused and amazed by the bravery now hidden behind its panels. Delia was too perfect for words. She had given her permission to clean, despite clearly thinking it wasn’t the best idea right now, and not just because they might be late. So, once her own body was washed – with the precious commodity that was Pears soap – enough to feel sufficiently fresh for the day, she donned her detestable uniform, and got out a bottle of bleach along with her beloved Marigold gloves. As she set to work putting both the room and her mind to rights, she experienced (for the second time that morning) gratitude instead of guilt. The strength of that emotional reversal only increased when there was another knock on the door._

_‘Just open it, Deels, otherwise I’ll get bleach everywhere!’ she called, chuckling at her own ridiculousness. I’m ready to go, though – I’ve just finished the first round, so you’ve saved me before I attempt a deep cleanse.’_

_Delia came in as quickly and as quietly as she had left, holding in a giggle at the (beautiful) sight before her until the door was shut again. ‘I thought as much,’ she said, smiling, 'so I brought something with me. Your hands could probably do with a dab of cream, and I swear by this when mine are chapped from too much time in the sluice sorting out bedpans. The best bit about it, though?’ she paused to make sure she had Patsy’s full, no, rapt, attention, prior to continuing. ‘It’s made from calendula – do you know which plant that is?’ Her eyes sparkled with mirth._

_Patsy nodded slowly, flashing a gentle grin up at her friend from where she knelt in the middle of the floor. ‘You think you’re fabulously funny, don’t you, my dear Nurse Busby? I do indeed know which genus you’re referencing, as it happens,’ she said, enjoying Delia’s delight at her obviously heightened accent. ‘Marigolds.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! I hope this feels realistic and not gratuitous, because it’s pretty close to the bone. Although my care needs aren’t quite as significant as Patsy’s are here, they’re not far off. (Forgive me for not going into explicit personal detail...!) Also, if anyone's interested in the 'spoon theory' referenced briefly, there's an explanation at this link: https://butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/
> 
> Sincere thanks, as always, for the moral support and motivation. It means the world that you’re sticking with this kind of subject matter <3


	10. October - Person-Centred Care...or Chrysanthemums?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy and Delia have a visit from their Social Worker, in the present – and in the past, well...what happened in October in canon?
> 
> Content note for vomit, PTSD, social care conflicts, and Delia’s accident. (Sorry.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late. For once I took my own advice and gave myself some much-needed time for self-care. Partly because this is another comfort/discomfort chapter for me, but mostly because this was the canon/modern crossover that inspired the whole fic, so I wanted to do it justice. (Hence it being so long, too.)

Patience was both a virtue (usually with a capital ‘V’) and a necessity. Patsy Busby-Mount had been told this so often that the maxim sometimes seemed almost literally to thrum through her veins with a strength akin to a second pulse. She was sure she must have had some variation of it impressed upon her by each new group she encountered throughout her life. Its whispers wove their way through all aspects of her engagement with the world, touching everything from the solidarity and sisterhood of the women in the camps, whose sole intent had been to promote in her the spirit of survival, to the snide snobbery of her fellow students – at school and during training – whose taunting puns had been calculated to have exactly the opposite effect. Because, of course, it was also her name, and thereby simultaneously formed a protective shell around her sense of selfhood and provided the perfect weapon with which that shell could be pierced. Yet, these days, in the muddle that was her mind, that “of course” about it signalling her individual identity did not feel anything close to as certain as it once had. For whilst these various scenarios (the camp, the bullying) were so crystallised in her consciousness that it was like they had been branded into her skull, the name from which they sprang seemed to be becoming ever more elusive. She used to be annoyed by the obvious connection to the popular aphorism, and the expectations it carried, but now their weight was a blessing as it seemed to be the only way to make her name stick. That and Delia – and she would never forget Delia. Delia was her safeguard against forgetting herself; in both the metaphorical and (terrifyingly) real senses of that expression. Delia was her tether. As long as they were together, she could keep _herself_ together, because their partnership allowed her the possibility of letting go. If they were separated

(as they had been not just once but twice before)

she knew _she_

would be separated from

all that remained of

her already

shattered

semblance of

self

hood.

With Delia (Deels!) she was Pats. Pats was far more “her” than Patience – and definitely, _by definition_ , more than the patient she feared, felt, she was steadily slipping towards becoming with the dawn and dusk of each new (old?) day. Delia did not define her, but she helped her define herself. Always had done, from the first moment they met. Helped her to discern the difference between her dreams and her reality, and then worked to make the latter less raw and more of a relief.

Oh God.

Maybe that was why she was forgetting her name.

The boundaries between her multiple senses of self (and the experiences they had either endured or enjoyed) were blurring now more than they had in years. So had she slipped into survival mode? Without even realising it? She supposed she must’ve done. Not no emotions, just no negative emotions. Well, not feeling any. Not feeling or dealing. For Deels. Because Deels was dealing with far too much as it was. The intensity of her increased care needs was more than enough for her beloved to bear. She didn’t need any additional angst. So, over the last month, “Protective Pats” had brought “Positive Pats” out to play, too. And mostly they seemed to be muddling along fine. Well, as fine as they could with the metaphorical clock of her condition ticking away.

The looming sense of loss did not preclude every possibility of laughter and love, after all. She – they – knew that better than most.

And they were happy; happy just to have the continued chance of happiness. If they could just be left to it, that is.

But they weren’t being. As of today, it seemed. Hence sitting in the lounge with someone from the Adult Social Care Team of Kensington, Chelsea and Westminster’s Local Authority, cuddled up on the couch (a suggestion of Trixie’s, to prove the point that they still could).

Patsy wasn’t quite sure what this meeting was about, specifically, but she could guess – and, from the way Delia’s body had suddenly tensed as she sat beside her, it wasn’t going very well.

Enough musing. Engage mind again.

~

‘Really, Mrs Busby-Mount –’

They were barely twenty minutes into the meeting with their recently-allocated Social Worker and Delia was already having to hold back from decking the woman. She was sure she was perfectly lovely on a personal level (they usually were, being only human after all) but in terms of professional conduct she left much to be desired. And she wasn’t even a student! Still, Delia’s own years of engaging with what current jargon called “Service Users” made her at least a little sympathetic, so she confined herself to responding to this latest interjection with only the slightest sarcasm, thinking as she spoke how glad she was that Trixie was there too. She needed someone else to bear witness to this shambles.

‘Which one? There are two of us, you know. With all due respect, Ms Butler, I think you’re forgetting that Patsy is my wife.’

The young woman paused a moment, and Delia braced herself for her reply; years of homophobia had made honesty hard. It turned out she was right to put up a shield, but not for the instinctively-expected reason. ‘That is exactly my point – so is she. Do you not agree?’

Trixie and Delia simultaneously sucked in a breath. There was so much wrong with that statement that they didn’t quite know where to start. As Delia struggled in silence to formulate something vaguely coherent to say, she hoped hard, for once, that Patsy hadn’t been paying attention enough to hear. Perhaps the concentration required to sit up would be enough to let it evade her ears. Casting a sidelong glance at her wife, however, she saw steely confirmation that her hopes had not been heeded. Patsy’s eyes were ice, although to an uninitiated outside observer she would still appear passive and utterly unperturbed. An outside observer would also think that this was due to her dementia; but they would be mightily mistaken. It was the very essence of Pats, and of the patient Virtue whose name she bore.

Wait.

Don’t respond.

Don’t even flinch.

Don’t let them know you’re aware of what they’ve done to you, or how it makes you feel.

That way, they might just lose interest, and leave you alone.

And that way, if they don’t, you still have the haven of your mind to yourself.

Mostly.

Delia could read all of these silent sentences and more in the pages of Patsy’s perfectly poised face – she needed no other book to aid communication. She never really had. So, before gratifying Ms Butler’s overly-inflated ego by replying to her blunt question, she made an elaborate show of reaching over her wife’s body to grasp her right hand in a gentle gesture of comfort. Their seating position was very deliberately, yet subtly, arranged. It allowed Patsy’s left side to sink into Delia’s steadiness in such a way as was not discernible to anyone unacquainted with the idiosyncratic intricacies of her impairment, and put them both within grabbing distance of the bowl balanced on the arm of the couch, should she suddenly be overcome by sickness. It also offered optimal leverage in exactly this sort of situation. With Trixie to Patsy’s right, she would be the natural (necessary) choice to help with communication, thereby avoiding any accusations of bias on Delia’s part. They were not quite at that juncture of the talk just yet; but they soon would be, and it was imperative that they were all prepared. Only once she had hold of Patsy’s hand, and had seen the subsequent glance signalling that her wife was re-anchored by the slight pressure against her palm, did Delia venture an answer – in the form of a further question.

‘I’m sorry?’

This was a twofold tactic. It gave Ms Butler a get-out, were she sensible enough to take it, and it gave them more (and explicit) evidence of her inadequacy if not. Patsy leaned slightly more heavily against Delia for a moment, both as a grateful acknowledgement of her wife’s brilliance and in an effort to steel herself for whatever words were about to be said. Even a mere repetition would hurt her heart, and she needed extra help to hide that.

‘That is my point. From what you have told me this afternoon, or rather _not_ told me, I am inclined to believe Patsy often forgets who you are to her – and is doing so with increasing frequency.’

How dare you!? That conclusion doesn’t even follow logically from the premises of your argument. You’re asking the wrong questions, anyway. It isn’t Deels I’m forgetting – it’s _me_!

Patsy’s eyes were ice again, but Delia could tell her façade was dangerously close to cracking. Nevertheless, as much as she wanted to damn all decorum and play the ventriloquist for her wife’s sentiments by blurting out a “How dare you!?” of her own, she simply smiled tightly. Then, shifting her weight slightly as both warning and warmth, she turned so that she was directly facing the object of the conversation – and her affection. ‘Who am I to you?’ she asked. As she forcibly held back one of the many endearments which would usually tumble out after any interaction, regardless of whether or not it referenced their relationship, her throat hurt – she hadn’t had to do that in decades. Then she found herself thinking of, and aching for, how many times her beloved must have experienced such physical responses to emotional pain, even before they met and had had either to hide from, or to battle against, bigotry. This particular instance was worth it, though, because it removed any risk that she could be considered to be prompting Patsy; and it cued her wife into another stage of their plan.

Returning Delia’s tight-lipped smile, albeit with the tiniest of twinkles in her now thawing gaze, Patsy then shared a look with Trixie, who grabbed her book (from the other arm of the couch, where it was also rather precariously perched). As her old and dear friend flipped it open, she smiled properly for a second, before readying herself to begin the task at which they had somehow both become so adept. They were, in fact, one might even say (if it weren’t too much faff to spell out, because it definitely wasn’t in the book), positively adroit.

‘Quick talk?’

A headshake.

‘Family and friends?’

A headshake.

Trixie could not conceal her surprise, or the waver in her voice, as she checked in. ‘Sure?’

A headshake. Oh, how fervently she wished she could explain aloud. “Family and friends” was too easy a shortcut. Not only was Delia’s name there, she was labelled as her wife, and there were two pictures of her; one as she was now and one from not long after they met. That would confirm nothing of consequence about her memory.

‘Feelings?’

A headshake.

Trixie was getting steadily more confused and less calm. ‘Events?’

A headshake. Time to try a different tack. She trained her eyes on the bottom right-hand corner of the page, checking in only briefly to ensure her gaze had been followed, before flicking her head emphatically to the left. Turn, Trix. Keep turning. I’ll nod when I want you to stop.

After one tentative try, Trixie caught on, and kept turning – although she did still silently check in with every page just to be certain they were on the right track. Eventually, as Patsy at last nodded when they got to the final double-page section, realisation dawned. ‘Oh – you wanted the _alphabet_! Sorry, sweetie,’ Trixie trilled, before mouthing “Clever clogs” whilst her back was turned from Ms Butler under the pretence of fixing Patsy’s (perfectly-placed) collar.

Patsy grinned, first at her friend and then at her wife (her wife, damn it!), and decided that she couldn’t care less if she dribbled whilst doing so. At this point it would actually add to the effect!

Delia shook her own head slightly now in an admonishment (albeit one tinged with amusement). ‘Behave, Pats, don’t push it,’ she cautioned on a whisper, as she whipped a tea-towel seemingly from nowhere and caressed her _cariad’s_ chin. Endearments were fine in their heads, as they always had been – they had survived in silence for long enough that she was confident they could cope with a few more minutes when it mattered. And it mattered now. But she knew what also mattered was having the strength to get through this slog of a consultation, so she couldn’t really begrudge Patsy the haven of humour, especially as it was subtle enough not to be noticed by anyone but them. Even more especially as, mere moments ago, a meltdown had seemed almost certainly on the cards. Therefore, when she eventually spoke aloud (having taken a not inconsiderable amount of time to tuck the tea-towel away again), Delia kept her eyes fixed on her wife’s face and her tone bright. ‘Right. Now you’ve found the page you need, are you ready to answer my question? Can you remember what I asked?’

Patsy nodded, and dropped her eyes down to the book in an attempt to hide her smirk. Deels was taking this a tad too far, really, but it was worth it for the discomfort emanating from where Ms Butler sat in the armchair on the other side of the lounge.

Trixie followed her friend’s gaze. This was going to be interesting. For supposed ease of reading, the letters were split into seven groups (five containing four letters, and two containing three). These groups had been placed in boxes, and were spread in large print over the two pages, accompanied by a couple of extra boxes filled with what were apparently deemed the eight essential punctuation marks. Notably, this selection did not include a hyphen or a semicolon; something they all considered inexcusable. The pages were set out as follows:

A B C D           E F G H           I J K L

M N O P          Q R S T            U V W

X Y Z               . , ? !                 ‘ : ( )

As both women took a moment to re-familiarise themselves with the system, Trixie was reminded why they didn’t use this part of the book much. It wasn’t that Patsy didn’t want or need to spell things out. Far from it, because even Em’s input couldn’t have conjured up the space to house an unlimited vocabulary, and the format needed to be simple enough to ensure it wouldn’t cause confusion on trickier days. The original suggestion had been to lay this section out like a QWERTY keyboard (or, when that was roundly refused, like the keypad of a basic mobile phone) but even the latter involved too much bother with too many boxes. So this setup made sense. It just took so long... and spoons were sacred things, on all sides. It was usually easier, for everyone, if they cycled through potentially relevant words within the context of conversations.

Patsy made a noise in concern, and Trixie shook herself out of her brief despondency with the thought that this would be infinitely more taxing for her friend (not that she would ever let on, just as Trixie wouldn’t let on that she noticed). Still, needs must. Their alternative method relied too much on prediction to be considered an acceptable gauge of memory; hence the rare choice of the alphabet. With a slight smile, she spoke a single word – not wishing to place too great an emphasis on the gulf between their “abilities” at this sensitive stage. ‘Ready?’

A nod. Ready.

‘Right. I’ll ask about each box and then, when you select one, I’ll list the letters. Nod when I get to the right one. Okay?’

A nod. Okay.

‘First box?’

A headshake.

‘Second box?’

A headshake.

‘Third box?’

A headshake.

‘Fourth box? Sorry this is so awfully slow, sweetie, I know it’s not what we’re used to doing.’

A headshake and a snort. I’m trying to _behave_ , Trix, and you aren’t helping.

‘Fifth box?’

A headshake.

‘Sixth box?’

A nod. _Finally_.

‘U, V, W?’

A nod, and a sly glance upwards at her friend, in acknowledgement of the deliberate speed. Careful, Trix, you don’t want to get told off for predicting.

‘W. First box?’

A headshake.

‘Second box?’

A headshake.

‘Third box?’

A nod.

‘I –’

A nod to cut off the rest of the list.

‘W I –’

A nod again in confirmation, followed by a pointed stare across the room. A stare which was, in fact, mirrored on the faces of all three women on the couch. Surely that would be enough? Yet they received no indication that it was – indeed their only feedback was an equally pointed stare. For fuck’s sake, this was so unfair.

Delia grabbed Patsy’s right hand again and concluded that desperate times called for devious measures. If Ms Butler was determined to be so bloody obtuse, it was clearly of no consequence which language they used to converse. Welsh it was, then. ‘ _Daliwch ati_ ,’ she counselled, letting the “ _cariad_ ” hang unspoken once more, just in case.

Patsy nodded. Keep going.

Trixie restarted the roll call of boxes. ‘First box?’

A headshake.

‘Second box?’

A nod. At least the last two letters weren’t that far into the alphabet.

‘E, F?’

A nod accompanied by a warning look. Slow down, Trix, we’re so close yet so far. It’s not worth blowing it now.

‘W I F. First box?’

A headshake.

‘Second box?’

A nod.

‘E –’

A nod to stop the reel.

‘W I F E. Wife?’

An emphatic nod, more towards the Social Worker than Trixie. Wife. My wife, Ms Butler, my wife.

Delia squeezed her hand. ‘Well done, darling. _Caru ti, cariad_. I hope all that hassle was worth it, Ms Butler?’

‘I’m sorry, Patsy, I appear to have misjudged the way your memory is affected. I must also apologise to you, Delia, for making assumptions before I had the full picture. Which reminds me, please call me Sophie – I realise you gave me _your_ first names purely to make my life easier, but I think I ought to return the favour. I hope, if nothing else, it will illustrate that I’m trying to be as amenable as possible and that I’m here to make the process work for you. As strange as that might seem, given the way we’ve started off.’

All four women shared a smile. Perhaps bridges had not been burnt; perhaps they were actually yet to be built.

Still, there were things that needed to be said. Delia checked in with Patsy and, after receiving a nod, spoke up. ‘Thank you, Sophie, that is much appreciated. However, I should probably be frank, too. I perhaps wasn’t clear enough earlier. We aren’t convinced we _need_ it to work for us, or even if we want a process at all. We were both nurses. That means two things. Firstly, I am perfectly happy to continue to provide _my wife’s_ care myself. I would _rather_ provide _my wife’s_ care myself. Secondly, if that is not enough, we are extremely aware of the challenges care environments face (and are facing even more under the cuts) so we would not wish to add to that strain. Besides, even if that were not the case, it’s not as if the Local Authority needs to get involved, really, because we have far too much money of our own. Don’t we, _cariad_?’

Patsy blushed and nodded sheepishly. We do indeed. Have you at last found a way to persuade me that that’s positive, love?

Delia read the question in those beautiful blue eyes and grinned as she continued talking to Sophie. ‘See? We don’t need the support of the state. Our dear friend does, though, so we know how stretched things are.’

The young Social Worker saw the love between the women and shared silently in their joy for a moment before she responded. ‘That’s very noble, and understanding, of you both. But this is not about the money – it’s about practicalities. It’s not realistic for you to keep going like this for much longer...’ she trailed off, wishing she did not have to break the trance of their sincere connection.

Patsy’s head snapped around to face Sophie. It won’t _be_ for much longer, don’t you get that? Do I have to spell _that_ for you as well!? Suddenly exhausted, she opened her mouth, as though hoping that speech would somehow spill out of her in this moment when she needed it the most.

~

But no such luck.

Instead of sound, all she was granted was the sharp, insistent impulse to gag.

Shit.

No.

Not in front of other people.

 _Any_ other people.

But especially not _her_.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Not here.

But then, _I’m_ not here.

 _Where_ am I?

Deels?

Catching both her wife’s confusion and the retch which had provoked it (or which it had provoked, because they never knew which arrived first), Delia calmly brought the bowl down from the armrest and settled it squarely under Patsy’s chin. Just in time, too. ‘Okay. Okay. You’re okay,’ she soothed, rubbing gentle circles between her wife’s shoulders with her free hand. This routine had become so habitual over the last sixty years – never mind the last month, since the symptom had returned with regularity – that she was sure she could do it in her sleep. Almost literally. Indeed, these days, she very often _did_ ; _half_ asleep, at any rate, whether in the early hours of the morning or the middle of the night.

And that was _fine_.

 _She_ was fine, as long as _Pats_ was fine.

Not in the self-effacing sense that everyone suspected – quite the opposite, actually. Those suspended moments in the time between twilights, when the sole sound was her own murmurs of “you’re okay, you’re here, I’m here”, were as comforting reminders to her as to Pats.

 _She_ was okay. _She_ was here. And _they_ were together.

No more lying lonely and wishing for mutual warmth. Loving, and being allowed to love, was a luxury they would not let go of lightly. It was a right, too, of course; but not having had it in the past made it feel more like a gift in the present.

It made _them_ present.

But sometimes, if it happened at another time (like now), it made them forget that other people were present. Subsumed and consumed by the need to conquer the sickness, they both blocked everything else out.

Like Sophie, who was sitting (and staring), watching and waiting.

~

Shit, thought Delia, as she dragged herself back to attention. That look doesn’t bode well.

‘Okay. Okay. You’re okay,’ Patsy was beyond reacting now, but it was important to keep her included and engaged. Still, it was probably preferable if she didn’t register this next bit. The Social Worker needed an explanation, after all, and it would not do to sugar-coat it in the circumstances. So, continuing to comfort through tracing circles on her wife’s back, she spoke before she could stop herself under the guise of sensitivity. ‘I’m sorry. It’s a response to what we’re talking about.’

Sophie shook her head. ‘ _I’m_ sorry. I just thought it might be better to move her now, before things get worse. I know dementia isn’t helped by disorientation, so the earlier we do it...’ the young woman trailed off, at a loss.

‘It isn’t just dementia that wouldn’t be helped. Pats struggles with disorientation generally, manifesting like this and as dissociation from her surroundings. She needs to be somewhere, and with someone, she knows. Moving her at any time would _make_ things worse, and her deterioration is fast enough as it is. You’re offering us chrysanthemums –’ Delia broke off as Patsy giggled briefly. Perhaps she wasn’t as out of it as she seemed. ‘Careful, _cariad_ , you can’t puke and laugh at the same time – you’ll choke. You have to choose. Giggle or gag.’ Then, to Sophie again (interspersed with soothing noises), ‘Forgive our sense of humour. It’s often the only thing that gets us through.’

Sophie nodded. ‘It’s fine. I’m afraid I don’t quite follow your reference to chrysanthemums, though.’

 ‘A metaphor for when professionals override the preferences of people they work with – it’s from an AA Milne poem. Don’t worry, that isn’t an accusation at all; I’ve done similar plenty of times throughout my own career. We all have, haven’t we, Trix?’

Trixie nodded, and took up the thread, so Delia could redirect her focus to where it was most needed. Patsy. ‘Indeed we have. It’s perfectly natural to think we have the answers in the abstract. In practice we must adjust that to fit with individual people. And, if I may say so,’ she paused to receive confirmation that she had complete consent, before continuing, ‘in Patsy’s case there are many more factors to consider than there might first appear to be. Patience here is the embodiment of that, and far better than she should be at façades...’ She trailed off, unsure whether she should say more. Then her best friend giggled again, in the gap between words and bile, and that spurred her speech on. ‘Stop laughing, sweetie, or you really will choke. We’re trying to explain the seriousness of your emotions to Sophie, and you really aren’t helping our cause by making light of them.’

Delia jumped to defence. ‘She’s reliving childhood. She can no more readily control her responses than you could. Be kind. You’re right, though,’ she admitted, softening her tone a little at the sight of Trixie’s shocked expression, ‘there are many, many more factors to consider. And _this_ is foremost among them. I refuse to allow anyone to place Pats in an institutional setting, however cosily it might be advertised. I certainly won’t be making that choice for her myself.’ Patsy’s sickness intensified (no more giggles now), and Delia cursed herself for using that phrase – “institutional setting” – when she knew it, and others like it, were so triggering. But something drastic had needed to be said. She only hoped it had served its intended purpose. Perhaps an apology wouldn’t go amiss at this point. ‘Sorry. That was rather blunt. I hope my belligerence won’t hurt our case?’

Sophie shook her head. ‘Not at all. I’d say it makes it stronger. As does _this_ –’ she added, gesturing as sensitively as possible in the direction of the bowed head over the bowl and all that image signified.

‘Yes, I suppose it does. I’m sorry about that, too, especially as it seems we’re in this particular spell for the long haul. Trix, I know you likely don’t want to do _anything_ for me after I was so rude, but would you mind taking Sophie to the kitchen and popping the kettle on? I think my wife and I might need a moment to ourselves...’

Trixie jumped up, flashing a sympathetic smile. No hard feelings. Not after nigh on sixty years of friendship. ‘Of course –’

Sophie also stood, but cut her off. ‘Oh no, please, don’t worry about me. I should leave you to it. We’ll stay in touch to make sure you’re managing okay but, for now, I’m persuaded things are best kept as they are. If you’re happy with that, I’ll let myself out?’

Delia nodded, grateful that there was no expectation she interrupt the comforting massage she had continued throughout this latter part of their conversation. It was all the more necessary now that Patsy was properly being sick. ‘Good to meet you, Sophie. Your understanding hasn’t gone unappreciated; I can assure you of that, on both of our behalves.’

Trixie waited until Sophie’s steps had receded down the passage and they heard the front door slam shut before speaking again. ‘Shall I still make myself scarce for a bit?’

Her question was all kindness and sincerity, and Delia felt her throat constrict as she grinned up at her friend in assent. ‘Thanks, Trix. You’re a brick.’

‘Nonsense, sweetie, I’m only offering to make tea. I’ll bring a glass of water for this one to have when she’s ready, too. Now, no more talking – at least not to me.’

As Trixie made her way to the kitchen, Delia revelled a moment in the hush descending over the flat. Their oasis was their own once more. Now she just had to coax her _cariad_ back to join her in it. ‘Okay. Okay. Okay. Sophie’s gone, and Trix is making tea, so we can be quiet again. That’s better. Breathe it out...’ She paused a moment, to verify that the vomiting had actually stopped this time, and put down the bowl – but kept talking because her wife still wasn’t fully back in the room. ‘I’m sorry I used those horrid words, sweetheart, but I’m here to hold you through this. You’re okay. It’s 2017 and you are eighty-four years old. Your name is Patsy Busby-Mount and you are sitting beside me, Delia, on the couch in our flat in Chelsea. It’s 2017 and you are eighty-four years old. It’s 2017 and you are eighty-four years old. It’s 2017 and – Oh God, Pats, I love you so very much. Can’t I just say “come back”?’

Patsy’s head shot up at this final question, and the sound of the stifled sobs which were now following it. No. No. No tears. Not on her account.

Oh God. How long was I gone this time? Deels, darling, don’t cry.

She made a noise, and attempted to nudge her weight against her wife’s.

Eventually she succeeded, and Delia looked up. ‘Oh, _cariad_! I didn’t think you’d hear me! Sorry, love, I’m getting you all snotty...’ she trailed off, briefly lost in thoughts of her own, and then faced Patsy square on as they had sat earlier – with a fierce fire in her eyes. ‘Was it what I said?’

Patsy nodded and opened her mouth.

Please, please. I’ve already been sick, what more could you possibly want from me today? Let me have these four words.

‘I – came – back – Deels,’ she stammered after a struggle.

‘You did, Pats. Like you promised.’ As she found the tea-towel to start cleaning her _cariad_ up (and to sneak a corner for herself), the fire in Delia’s eyes seemed suddenly misted again. So far, so Welsh, the two women thought fondly – apparently Pembrokeshire was beautiful even when it _was_ raining. If only triggering happy memories was always as reliably achievable as traumatic ones.

‘And – so – did –’ Patsy’s head drooped with the effort, but Delia caught her chin and held it steady.

‘So did I. And you brought me chrysanthemums to the hospital. Mam thought you were making a point, apparently – she asked me about it ages afterwards, but I told her you didn’t know the poem. You do now, of course, but you didn’t know it then. I won’t tell Sophie that story when she next visits, I don’t think. But she won’t be back for a while yet; because I’m not going anywhere. You anchored me back then, whether you knew it or not (whether _I_ knew it or not!), and I’ll anchor you now. My life is here with you, love.’

~

_Delia Busby knew that was her name._

_Well._

_No._

_She didn’t._

_Not really._

_But everyone she interacted with – the doctors, the nurses, the loud but lovely woman who called herself her “Mam” –_ told _her that it was her name._

_So it must be, mustn’t it?_

_The problem was that she didn’t have anything to make it stick. No point of reference. No convenient hook to hang it on, as she might a heavy coat or a snug scarf, after long autumn walks trudging through leaves which littered a faraway forest floor. Faraway yet familiar. It was funny how she could remember that – well, not remember it, but sense it – but not her name. Funny peculiar, not humorous, although she knew she had cracked that – her_ humerus _. Along with quite a lot else. According to her chart, at least. And yet...not just according to her chart. It_ couldn’t _just be according to her chart, because she couldn’t read it._

_Not properly._

_It hurt too much._

_The letters looked a lot less solid than those leaves on that autumn walk. But, as she knew what autumn was, she somehow seemed to know what she’d hurt. She could feel it in her bones. Literally, of course, but also figuratively. It was almost like she had used the words the doctors and nurses used when they told her (and told her, and told her) what had happened._

_Used them herself._

_Regularly._

_Like she instinctively understood what they meant when they referenced “the bruises on her_ patella _”_ _before hurriedly clarifying that it was her kneecap. She had a knee-_ jerk _response, a deep desire to shout “I_ know _!”._

 _But she didn’t know_ how _she knew._

_Perhaps she had trained as a nurse? From what she had been told, she was the right age for that to be a possibility. And there had to be a reason why she was in London instead of Tenby. That was where her parents had told her they had travelled from, wasn’t it? But surely the idea of her having been a nurse was nonsense – how could she ever have taken care of others if she couldn’t take care of herself?_

_Even taking care of herself seemed a high bar, when she could barely remember her own name._

_Her name. Delia Busby. It just didn’t seem, feel, or (crucially) sound, like hers._

_Or rather it hadn’t until she met the girl with ginger hair who said she was her friend (and that, no, she didn’t have a lot of friends herself). The girl with ginger hair who, despite her own distress at not being remembered, was apparently acutely aware that the anguish of not_ remembering _must be far greater. No-one else seemed capable of comprehending that; not even her “Mam” and “Tad”, supposedly her strongest ties to her sense of self. No-one else, except the girl with ginger hair – who had sounded so like a nurse, too, and yet seemed genuinely concerned about the state of her fingernails. The girl with the ginger hair who had been so very_ patient _with her, and had thereby made her feel like anything but the patient she had undoubtedly become._

 _Because that was_ her _name: Patience. Patsy, really, as she had been very quickly informed – but the associated virtue made it easier to hang on to than any of the other names which had flooded her frazzled consciousness. It suited her just perfectly. It had the helpful hook her own name did not deign to possess._

_Perfectly Patient Patsy._

_Pats?_

_Delia wondered briefly if her new-old friend would mind that nickname. It seemed even more apt, almost as achingly familiar as the sounds of the scientific terms for her sore bones, but she didn’t want to be presumptuous. After all, however much history they might once have had, for all intents and purposes they were starting again from scratch, and it wouldn’t do to seem forward. It would do them both a disservice – getting Patsy’s hopes up that she remembered more than she actually did, and fuelling her own frustration about the gulf between the girl she had apparently been when they met and the shattered semblance of selfhood that remained in her place._

_And yet...Patsy had a nickname for her, didn’t she?_

Deels _?_

_Yes, that felt right as it echoed around the eerie emptiness of her brain. And that was her hook. At last._

_‘How are you feeling and dealing, Deels?’ Patsy had asked when she arrived (once “Mam” had eventually let her in, bustling around like a busybody and muttering things about “spells”). The evidence of the simple, uncomplicated joy at the pun on her name had made Delia’s heart swell with happiness on the one hand and attempt to exit her chest cavity on the other – because this girl (the girl with the ginger hair) didn’t know._

_She didn’t know_ Delia _didn’t know._

_Or she hadn’t known then._

_And somehow, Delia hadn’t_ wanted _her to know._

 _The way her questions caught in her throat had given her a silent sense of_ her _silent sense that this girl – the (gorgeous? Was that allowed?) girl with ginger hair – needed protecting from the anguish of not being recognised. Of course, in the circumstances, that was impossible. So she had forced the enquiries out over her guilt, and asked “Mam” for assistance when she saw the tears making tired tracks down a face she did not know, yet now knew, at least, that she had once known well._

_Patsy. This gorgeous girl with the ginger hair, who was so patient in her pain, and gracious in her grief. It was almost as though she had sat by a bedside like this before, so willing was she just to watch and wait, and welcome back._

_And how so very unlike her “Mam”, who had little time for anything except “melting” paper handkerchiefs with her sobs._

_Delia knew that was unfair. But her “Mam” couldn’t help her hang on to_ herself _. Patsy’s pun had pinned her name back on her heart. She wasn’t just “Delia”, she was_ Deels _– and she really was dealing rather well, all things considered..._

_Sometime later, as she lay alone listening to the hums of the hospital, sensing that she’d just resurfaced from another seizure, Delia found that (for all her guilt at making Patsy sad) she was mostly grateful._

_Grateful to the gorgeous girl with ginger hair who had brought back her name._

_And she’d come in carrying chrysanthemums._

_She didn’t know how she knew this, but that choice of flowers didn’t seem to sit well with her “Mam”. Good for you, you gorgeous ginger girl._

_~_

_Patsy Mount didn’t think she had ever experienced so many contradictory emotions, all at the same time, in her life. Certainly not in her_ adult _life. The only situation remotely similar to this one had been the day she had both found her Father and had to break the news that she – they – had “lost” her Mother and sister._ His _wife and daughter. Elizabeth and Grace. She, a twelve-year-old still tender from trauma and torture of both the physical and psychological variety, had had to tell him that terrible truth, and then to watch as her own woe was swallowed up by the sheer size of his sadness._

 _Now, the dynamics were decidedly different, yet strangely the same. Not only had she met her girlfriend’s Mother (“Mam”), but she had met her and been told (within what felt like a mere moment) that her girlfriend was_ no longer _her girlfriend. Not with those words, of course, but that was a big part of the problem – because the pain now pounding in her chest was not proportionate to her status as “friend” or, even more distantly, “the lady she helps at Cubs”._

_But that was fine. Such outward shows of emotions had never been her style, anyway. She had been absolutely mortified by the tears which had begun to fall, unbidden, at the realisation that “Deels” did not recognise “her Pats” – then even more disturbed by the thought that they were not simply a response to her pain in the present but to that she had felt in the past._

_When Mother had not recognised her daughter and Grace had had no sense of her sister._

_Yet, somehow, the reminder of that confusion in the squalor of the camp’s hospital hut had allowed her to recollect herself in the infinitely cleaner confines of this new room at the Royal London. Perhaps she was nearly at the point where trauma didn’t necessarily have to be repeatedly traumatic? If that were the case, she had Deels to thank for pushing her to make progress – and Deels was still here, in body if not in mind._

_Another (crucial) contrast from before._

_Patsy couldn’t fathom (couldn’t bring herself to fathom?) how frightened her darling must be._

_But she_ could _work to ease that fear by being the personification of Patience that her name designated and demanded._

 _So she sat and smiled, completely content to wait, watch, and welcome back. As before – but, blessedly, not_ exactly _as before, because, frankly, where there was life (supported by sanitation) there was hope. Deels might be at rock bottom now, but she had nowhere to go but up. It would take time, certainly, but with the proper care she could find herself again. Maybe not everything; but enough. Her essence hadn’t been eradicated, of that much Patsy was sure. She saw it in the slight smirk that played about her erstwhile love’s lips each time Mrs Busby fussed. As soon as Delia knew, and knew again (and again, and again) who her Mother was, the smirk returned. As though the recollection was all the prompt she needed to want to rebel._

_Dear, darling, devilish Deels. You really are dealing rather well, aren’t you?_

_The same could not be said for her Mother. Mrs Busby just couldn’t bear the sight of her daughter’s damaged frame (and its relentless reminder of her damaged_ brain _). She definitely couldn’t deal with her seizures, so much so that she used a euphemism instead of the actual word. Usually that would have irked Patsy, but she was fascinated by the calm she had found. Maybe it sprang from the same source as the muted memories of her own Mother? Whilst the two women could not be more different in terms of exterior appearance, she noted a resemblance in Mrs Busby’s fierce protectiveness and she knew, if she let herself, she would feel the slightest pang of jealousy that Delia still had someone so caring (if misguided) in her corner. Only the slightest; but, if she deigned to delve, it was there._

 _And she had been so_ nice _– so unexpectedly unpretentious and welcoming. True, she was formidable. Yet that quality was currently quashed a little by the toxic twins of fear and a foreign territory (both geographically and medically). Whether she was simply glad to have another woman around, or even just someone else to talk to regardless of gender, was unclear – but she was lovely. She had even squeezed Patsy’s shoulders as she passed her a paper handkerchief; and Patsy hadn’t minded. Just as she didn’t mind bearing a little (or actually a lot) of Mrs Busby’s burden. It was oddly refreshing to have someone who would_ let _her pick up the slack._

 _Not that she and Deels hadn’t shared things, of course they had, but sometimes she caught caution in her eyes. Concern that her_ cariad _already had too much anguish of her own and didn’t need any additional worry._

_Now that filter was gone._

_It was funny, in the peculiar sense of that word, Patsy thought. Of the two of them, she was more prepared to put on a façade – that had been a founding principle of their relationship from its very (first) beginning. Now that they would be starting again, though, she realised that Delia had been as skilled, if not more so. It was just that her brilliant, sunny, nature had shone so brightly that she had evaded everyone’s notice. Even (especially?) her girlfriend’s._

_Well._

_Former girlfriend’s._

_Because it had taken an accident (which had taken_ Delia _away) to allow Patsy full access to her depths. Now she could care for her, and more than just emotionally, but at the cost of her not knowing how much._

_And it was all her fault. If only she hadn’t lent her love her bike._

_Ah._

_That was her motivation for mothering Deels’ Mother now._

_Guilt._

_Go figure._

_The perennial child who, paradoxically, always assumed the role of the adult._

_But Mrs Busby seemed to be responding well – so maybe her reasons didn’t matter. Did they?_

_No._ Nothing _mattered in these moments but Delia._

_And Delia deserved professional care combined with compassion. The hospital could provide one, of course, and Mrs Busby could provide the other – but Patsy could provide both. Not in everyone’s case, as Trixie had once so acerbically (yet astutely) pointed out, but definitely in Delia’s. And she was beginning to think that Mrs Busby might think that too._

_~_

_Hence her muddle of emotions as they sat in the corridor now, two women shoulder to shoulder in woe at the world. Not only was Delia asleep, and despite being unaware of it, having a father-daughter moment the like of which Patsy couldn’t conjure in even the deepest reaches of her consciousness, but she was being taken further away than she already felt._

_To Pembrokeshire._

_Without Patsy._

_Worse still, the hospital were not only permitting it but had suggested it._

_Emotions aside, admittedly, it made sense. She would likely recover her memories chronologically – for the most part – so to be surrounded by the Celtic hills of her childhood was a solid guiding principle. “Nurse Mount” knew all this and more. But she also knew, just as Mrs Busby did, that she would need constant care. Care that “Nurse Mount” felt professionally called, and “Patsy” personally clamoured, to provide._

_Yet she did not offer. She would tell herself, over the short but interminably long months that followed, that it was because no opportunity arose, and because her sense of loyalty to Nonnatus lay in the way of language. If she allowed herself to be honest, however, neither of these reasons rang true._

_To put it simply: she was scared. Scared that she could not trust herself to hold back. Scared that Delia’s newly disarmed demeanour would fracture her own attempts at a façade. A façade which would be infinitely more important to maintain within the walls of her girlfriend’s (her_ former _girlfriend’s) family home. And that was it, too – she hadn’t been in such an environment since... well, bluntly, since before the camp. So, whilst, on the one hand, she wanted nothing more than the chance to reclaim it as a refuge, on the other even the thought terrified her._

_And that was without the possibility that Delia might not recover her memory; or the worry that, if she did, she would no longer want her as she once had._

_Once._

_That made it sound like a lifetime ago, when in reality it was a few hours – but, in both of their brains, it might as well have been sixty years. Because, now, Patsy too was bereft of the building blocks she had so painstakingly accrued over their partnership. She hadn’t been defined by Delia, but Delia had helped her form her own self-definition. Delia was gone, and she could feel herself going too._

_She had to leave. Now. The corridor, suddenly, was crushingly claustrophobic – and, for all her earlier sweetness, Mrs Busby had made it clear that she didn’t want Patsy present, neither in person nor by pen. The “I dare say you could write” was little more than a placatory platitude, a mere formality; they were both acutely aware that it would be futile. Certainly for a few months, and possibly permanently so. What good were words to a woman who could not read? Besides, if she were to write, it wouldn’t be what she wanted to say. It_ couldn’t _be what she wanted to say..._

_Still, it would give her something to do in the hours of the night even she would consider an unsociable time for cleaning. She would have to give up on sleep, after all, because she could already feel nausea tightening its tendrils in her stomach. She needed a productive pastime – and writing had the pretence of purpose._

_First, though, she_ did _have an excuse for cleaning; she needed to sort the flat. The fateful flat, so filled with hope yesterday, and so frightfully horrid today. Delia had wanted it spotless. She would get her wish. She just wouldn’t be there to see it. How quickly dreams could turn to dust – but Patsy had picked herself up and brushed herself off before. She could do it again. She had also waited before; she could do that again, too. At least, at the flat, she needn’t stifle her own sobs out of respect for others. The bitterness of bereavement could spill out of her as the bleach spilled out of its bottle. Then, tomorrow morning, she could find a shard of solace in the sunrise...and the chrysanthemums she still clutched close would have a far more grateful recipient in that ghastly (gorgeous) jug than anywhere else._

_She knew where they – and she – could go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won’t say I hope this was okay, because *I* wasn’t okay writing it, but I hope I succeeded in my parallels and I’m sorry. Blame CTM for giving Patsy chrysanthemums in 4x08...
> 
> EDIT: I wrote the notes for this in a rush last night as I had issues with my own personal care (employing some new people and they charge extra after a certain time, which I literally can't afford...)
> 
> So I wanted to add the sincerest of thank yous for the overwhelmingly lovely response to this fic as a whole, but especially last week's chapter. I'm still not quite sure what to do with myself after everyone's kind words. It makes my nerves and honesty and everything else worth it <3


	11. November - Rosehip and Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tricky times around Remembrance Sunday.
> 
> Content Note for fevers, grief, and Singapore, in both timelines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in memory of my dear friend Gemma's sixteenth anniversary, on the 9th of this month, and in thanks to you all for making be bold with your loveliness. <3
> 
> Note the flashback in the first half too, so you don't get confused.

On Sunday 12th November 2017, as the early morning autumn sunlight drifted, dappling, through their bedroom window and over the face of her dear, dozing, wife, Delia Busby-Mount smiled. It was a smile of both relief (for Patsy’s peace at last after a difficult few days and nights) and relish at the rare chance to watch her sleep. Delia didn’t think she’d ever tire of the sight, simply because she knew how much it signified. When she got a gift like this, it meant guards had been let down – and in many ways that had never been more of a welcome surprise than in recent weeks. Of course Patsy had necessarily become more and more open as result of her steadily ( _much_ _too_ steadily) increasing memory issues. She didn’t have a choice. Yet, although she was forgetting things far more frequently than remembering them, she still _knew_ she was forgetting things; and that combination was catastrophic for her sense of (self-) control.

Poor Pats.

It just wasn’t fair.

No wonder she had put up shields (of a sort) again. No matter, moreover, that they were entirely ineffectual – except that Delia did worry about her needlessly expending extra energy.

Hence the relief, now, as she sat beside the bed (perched on the edge of a conveniently-parked wheelchair) and gazed at her still-sleeping sweetheart. Patsy definitely deserved some uninterrupted rest. Last night had been especially taxing – for them both, but mostly for Pats.

 _Always_ mostly for Pats.

Why was that seemingly so hard for anyone (everyone!) else to understand? Even Trixie didn’t quite get it. Even the woman herself would probably have protested otherwise; which, admittedly, was exactly what Delia had done when they were first reunited during her own recovery.

The only person who came remotely close to comprehending it was Em. Thank goodness they were getting together later. Delia needed the hard-won wisdom of her fellow Welshie. It wasn’t in the least bit okay that their young friend was better-versed in how to deal with a body and brain which wouldn’t behave than they were. It was the wrong way around. But, as she was, they could not but be grateful for her advice. It had been utterly invaluable so far – and she would most likely insist that she was glad to offer support “in return for everything they had given her”. She also (completely understandably) had a deep investment in reciprocity. She was equally good at recognising her own hypocrisy, though; and that was what her wife needed today.

Someone, slightly more distant than Delia, to remind her to be gentle with herself.

She was grieving, after all. Bereaved (and bereft) of her body and brain, if not in totality, then as they had once been. Although Delia knew that sort of pain better even than Em (because Em had never experienced any other neurophysiological reality than the one her birth had brought with it) she also knew that that knowing sometimes made her seem _too_ close for comfort. Too close _to offer_ comfort.

And that was without acknowledging the crucial contrast – that their situations were essentially unfolding in reverse. Patsy had (of course) pointed this out very early on. Indeed from the very first time they (properly) talked about it, before embarking on January’s juniper-inspired gin fest. But Delia hadn’t fully appreciated that difference, despite having an intervening period of ten months in which to mull it over. At least she hadn’t until last night.

Because, last night, the bereavement had become about more than just Patsy’s body and brain.

Last night, her beloved had been back in Singapore – and hadn’t understood what was happening.

~

_Patsy was enjoying this dream; one of those where her sense of self was split into two distinct people, the first acting as a witness to the actions of the second as they played out, almost like a film. There was a distance to this kind of dream. She wasn’t thrown into the thick of it. True, she had no control over what happened, and other people might have supposed that would make things more difficult – but she actually found it oddly comforting. It was like the dream version of her daytime dissociation; a problematic and ultimately unhelpful refuge, but a refuge nonetheless. Her witness-self pondered this for a moment. She wasn’t really sure what all of it was a response to, any more. She knew she had nightmares, but mostly only because she woke with a start and then swiftly found herself wrapped in the soft warmth of Deels’ embrace. The details were never very specific._

_Just scary._

_So scary._

_Never nice._

_She certainly couldn’t remember (no pun intended, Pats!) the last time she had dreamt like this, all distanced. What a blissful relief it was!_

_Especially when it was as vivid – and, more importantly, as enjoyable – as this._

_She was walking – as she always was, the neurological niggles that now plagued her physical ability whilst awake having apparently missed the memo in her sleep – but, significantly, she was young again._

_Very young._

_Well, not_ very _young, but young enough._

_About eight._

_Maybe on the cusp of turning nine?_

_Anyway, she was young, and she was walking – running now – through the lush greenery of what had to be the most beautiful garden she had ever seen. It felt like home._

_(Was it home? Her witness-self wasn’t sure, and started scanning through potentially relevant knowledge. The front page of her communication book said she was born in Shanghai...but her dream child-self was far older than a baby. There was another place, also beginning with ‘S’, but that had become much vaguer in her mind since Sophie’s visit and her subsequent struggles with sickness.)_

_Singapore? That seemed about right._

_The place in her dream seemed too hot to be in this country, certainly. Much too hot. Hang on, was that because_ she _was too hot? Curse British winters! Her sickness since Sophie’s visit had not been confined to nausea, but encompassed fevers too. Not ’flu, just a feverish cold – and it was perfectly possible she was running a temperature as she ran through this garden..._

_But it was too gorgeous to leave just yet. Especially because, wherever she was, she was no longer alone. An even younger girl had joined her in her game of chase; a girl who seemed at once familiar, like family, but far away._

_Had she had a sister?_

_At that question from her witness-self, the wide expanse surrounding the two running girls shimmered with heat as the sky above broke out in heavy rain, and she was finally persuaded that she had a fever. After all, why else would she be running in a garden with a girl she could not positively identify in the middle of what she (somehow suddenly) knew was a monsoon?_

_Surely her Mother would have had something to say about that?_

_But then, her Mother wasn’t here._ Where was she? Had she even ever had a Mother? She must’ve done; but why did she feel so like an orphan?

_As her frantic (silent, literally unspeakable) questions fell in torrents faster than the fictional rain fashioned by her fever, the garden fell away too, along with the other girl._

_The girl about to be swallowed up by a darkness so deep that even her witness-self seemed reticent to let her reach into it._

_The girl she didn’t know – and yet knew innately that she had promised never to forget._

_Patsy fought to rouse herself (both selves – adult witness, and giddy, running girl) from what was now a stifling slumber. She was too hot. She couldn’t think._

_Yet she_ had _to think. Because she needed to ask Deels a question. A question to which, at one point, only she herself had known the answer. She knew this, just as she knew that Deels had been the first person outside of herself to know._

 _But now_ she _was outside of herself – beside herself – and so only Deels knew._

_~_

_‘Deels!’_

_It had taken just the first consonant of her nickname (now one of the few words her_ cariad _still managed to say with any certainty) to jolt Delia awake. This in itself was nothing new; the combined forces of years of night shifts and an almost reflexive response to Patsy’s physical or psychological distress had coaxed her into being a light sleeper. Even so, as the shrill sound pierced through the fog of her own dreams, the quality of this particular call felt different. She was, therefore, not only instantly alert but engaged – slipping out from under the covers and around to the other side of the bed before her wife had reached the final letter, that stubbornly sibilant “s”._

_‘Yes, love?’ The question fell from her lips more out of habit than actual enquiry, because the face staring in absent terror towards the shadow of their bedroom door was utterly incapable of a verbal reply. So, taking Patsy’s right hand in hers, she switched on the bedside lamp with her left, and picked up the communication book. Before she could flip it open, though, the clamminess of her wife’s clasping fingers caught her attention._

_There was a power other than psychology at play here._

_Dropping the book gently onto the duvet, Delia felt that still-formidable forehead with her now free left hand and found (as she thought she would) fever. ‘Oh,_ cariad _, you’re burning up. I’m going to go and wet one of these flannels, but I’ll push your chair right up against the bed next to you, so you feel safe – okay?’_

_The briefest of blinks, the most she could manage whilst lying on her right side. Okay. See, I’m not entirely out of it; I’m just very hot..._

_‘I know. I’m sorry. We’ll get you cooled down. Shut your eyes whilst I sprint over, though, because I’ll need to turn the bathroom light on and you’ll be sensitive to the sudden brightness.'_

_A blink before she complied. Little do you know I’ve just been positively drenched from running in a monsoon, love..._

_Little does Deels know indeed, Patsy’s witness-self reminded her angrily (apparently now a feature of her consciousness awake, too). She knows far more than you do at the moment. This is no time for facetiousness. You have a fever, and you’ve forgotten who that other little girl might be –_

_This unasked for, and utterly unproductive, self-criticism was thankfully cut off at the sound of the click of the light in the en suite, followed by hurried footsteps as Delia returned to reassure her wife and attempt to wrestle her temperature down. ‘There, does that feel nice?’_

_Patsy blinked and murmured in grateful assent as the cool cloth passed over her brow. Thank you. Perhaps I was drenched in sweat rather than rain? But, no, let me have a moment just to be here before I think about going back there and explaining._

_Delia smiled at the slight sounds – any form of communication was a gift, but something approximating speech would always be extra special. ‘Good. And how’s your chest? Your breathing seemed a bit off when you were calling.’_

_A blink and a lopsided smile in return. Oh, Deels, ever observant. My breathing was off, but not because of my chest. I’ll tell you about it as soon as I’m cool enough to focus on my book...but first I need to sneeze. Oh dear._

_‘Careful,_ cariad _, you nearly cracked the top of your head on the headboard! Trust you to manage that whilst you’re still lying down.’ Delia held back a chuckle at the stunned expression on Patsy’s face, before briefly swapping the flannel for one of their other now ubiquitous (and multipurpose) bedside companions – loo roll. Then, continuing to speak as a distraction from the germs involved in what she was about to do, she wiped her wife’s nose and offered a placatory promise. ‘I’ll make you some ginger tea in the morning to chase away this pesky cold. Or would you prefer rosehip?’ she asked, pausing to tuck the used tissue discreetly away before putting both her hands up to signify the two options. ‘Left – rosehip, right – ginger.’_

 _A look towards the left, and a laugh, because Deels’ choice of hands showed she had already known which was likely to be picked. Left was right, right was wrong – not in terms of dexterity, by any means, but politics... At least I haven’t forgotten_ everything _, eh, love?_

 _Delia joined in with her wife’s unexpected hilarity, her enthusiasm only slightly tempered by concern that the laughter might lead to coughing, or worse, choking. Sickness would hopefully be kept at bay, though, thanks to their recent purchase of some anti-nausea acupressure bands. So she knew she should let her love laugh. After all, when the cough came, that, in itself, would put a stop to proceedings – and it did. ‘Okay,_ cariad _?’ she asked, reflexively checking in even as she had already moved to give Patsy a gentle thump on the back._

_A nod. Okay._

_The return of that deceptively simple yet fiendishly complex movement was a very good sign indeed. ‘Do you feel cooler now?’_

_Another nod as Deels touched her forehead._

_‘Yes, I think you are. Do_ you _think you’ll be able to get back off to sleep?’_

_A momentary hesitation – but hopefully enough for Deels to pick up on it._

_‘Would you be happier if we stayed up for a bit and chatted? You did sound rather bewildered when you woke.’_

_A relieved, grateful, nod._

_‘That’s fine; it’s not far off proper morning now anyway. I tell you what,’ Delia paused, thinking, before nodding at her own internal deliberations. ‘How about I swing your legs over the side of the bed and we sit there together? I’ll keep you stable and upright.’_

_A nod. Oh yes, please, we’ve not done that for ages._

_‘Perfect. Duvet off, then – and knees forward – all okay,_ cariad _?’_

_A blink now, as the bigger movements required the majority of her (already sapped) strength, even though she was barely doing anything for herself. Gone were her days of being heralded for heavy lifting..._

_‘I’m about to shift your feet over the edge, then I’ll support your shoulder and we’ll get you sitting up, all right?’_

_A blink._

_‘Okay, up you go, love. Slowly, though, it’ll take you a moment to adjust.’ Delia sought her wife’s gaze to check in properly now that they were more on a level. Upon receiving no response, she kept talking in the hopes of providing a soothing contrast to Patsy’s cerebral clamour. ‘You can lie down again if it’s too much but, now we’re here, we should probably let your mind and body acclimatise before we attempt to move anywhere else. Agreed?’_

_A blink at last. Agreed._

_‘Right, there are three things I’d like to suggest. Shut your eyes to stem the dizziness, and rest your head on my chest for stability, then take some breaths – as deep as your chest will allow. Can you do all of those for me?’_

_A blink._

_‘Come_ cwtch _,_ cariad _.’ Delia pulled Patsy as close as she could, in an effort to create the illusion of them being entirely separate from all of the other sensations she knew would be laying siege to her sweetheart at this point. ‘That’s it. Deep breaths._ Da iawn _, darling. Very good. Well done. Much better. Now, are you ready for me to sit next to you yet, or should I stay here?’ A pause – and a quiet chuckle – as she felt a headshake against her pyjama shirt. ‘I’ll stay here, then, for as long as you need. Do you want to sit in silence?’_

_Another headshake and a giggle of her own._

_‘That’s fine, I can keep talking; but I think I’ll get rather bored having a one-sided conversation. Shall I sing to you?’_

_Another giggle – and a nod._

_‘Any requests?’ She sensed rather than saw a raised eyebrow. ‘Sorry, love, that wasn’t in the least bit sensitive or funny. It’s just habit. Okay – I think I’ve got a fitting idea... on condition you keep breathing. Deal?’_

_A nod and a smirk against her wife’s shoulder._ Deal, Deels!

_‘You don’t get away with puns because they’re only in your head, Pats! But you’ve been feverish, so I’ll forgive you.’_

_A smile into the fabric. Sorry, I’ll shut up now, and let you sing._

_Delia mirrored the smile she could feel as Patsy sank against her support and, after taking a breath to remind her wife of the rules, began._

‘When you’re down, and troubled,

and you need some lovin’ care,

and nothing, nothing is going right...

Just close your eyes, and think of me,

and soon I will be there,

to brighten up even your darkest night.

 

You just call out my name,

and you know, wherever I am,

I’ll come running to see you again...

 

Winter, spring, summer or fall,

All you have to do is call...’

_Delia let the long note trail off as she suddenly felt shuddering sobs against her stomach (Patsy’s head presumably having slipped downwards with the effort of holding in her emotions). ‘Oh,_ cariad _, that wasn’t meant to make you cry. I’m sorry. Hang on, let me get you a tissue, and then we can talk about it, okay?’_

_A tentative nod as Deels reached over to grab the loo roll, keeping her right hand firmly fixed to steady a still-shaking shoulder._

_‘Here, love, let’s blow your nose.’_

_Gross. This was almost as awkward as changing pads – but not quite – and even that had nothing on the dynamic Em dealt with during periods. Still, needs must, and Deels was a darling about it all. So much so that she sang her Carole King songs in the middle of the night, and all she got in return was a snotty pyjama shirt. Not really reciprocal..._

_‘Hey, it might be dark, but I can still see what you’re thinking. It’s my own fault my shirt’s snotty. I chose the song. Besides,’ Delia continued, poking the bridge of Patsy’s nose affectionately with a dry edge of the tissue before chucking the apparently offensive object into the nearby bin, ‘I’m not in the least bit surprised you’re either sick or emotional; in fact it’s a relief to know we’re not entirely off-kilter just yet. You_ usually _get ill around Remembrance Sunday, sweetheart.’_

Why?

 _Delia read the unasked question in her wife’s (suddenly far too piercingly-aware for comfort) eyes and felt her own throat, and heart, constrict. They had been mutually content with trundling along, telling themselves that they were more than sufficiently-equipped to cope with the changes as they came – but now she wished they had had a more comprehensive discussion. Actually, a more_ particular _discussion: one which had focussed on this specific issue. Whether through mere complacency or outright denial, they had both somehow supposed that her formative years had been exactly that; so much part of her self-formation that even dementia could not dull their impression. Yet, from the look on the face before her now, Delia could not doubt that they had been decidedly, devastatingly wrong._

_Of course they had._

_The beast of her beloved beauty’s condition (Vascular Cognitive Impairment, to give it its full, final, non-euphemistic name) had taken almost everything else away. Who were they to harbour such hubristic hopes? Why should it be persuaded to preserve_ this _over any other aspect, just to prevent them from the pain of having to process Patsy’s past again in the present?_

_After all, however much it might have felt like it (and for however long) post-traumatic stress and the events which had provoked it were by no means an essential part of her. There had been a time before – the first nine years of her childhood – and, for all the crudeness of clichés, there was a not-insignificant sliver of truth in the statement that she was now experiencing a second one._

_Why would she_ not _, then, revert to the self before the stress?_ How _could she not?_

_It was, in some sense, the ultimate form of self-preservation – stripped, as she was at this stage, of all other strategies. At one point, moreover, they might both have wanted this to happen; might have believed that it would grant her a badly-needed break after so many years of grief._

_Now, though, they knew (or at least Delia did) that it was not quite so straightforward. Just as with everything else in their shared life. Because Patsy had not simply_ forgotten _, she_ felt _that she had forgotten – something important,_ instrumental _, to boot. More than that, even if she_ hadn’t _sensed its importance (which Delia was sure she had), she was still struggling with its ramifications: fear, fevers and loss of focus._

 _Those were the forces Delia could discern behind her darling’s dumbfounded demeanour as she forced herself to confront the cold reality of what she would soon have to convey. So, cuddling her_ cariad _close again (more for her own comfort in this moment), she squeezed a still (at last) shoulder before steeling herself and standing upright. ‘I’m going to sit next to you now, okay, love?’ she signalled softly, and then did just that, catching up the communication book as she sank against her soulmate’s side._

_They both needed that physical support; this was going to be tough._

_~_

_‘Before we get on to more complex things,_ cariad _, were you dreaming when you called?’_

_A nod._

_‘Was it a nightmare?’_

_A half-nod, followed by a slight slump. I’m not really sure what it was, Deels._

_Delia caught the confusion in her wife’s silent sentence and cracked open the communication book. ‘Can you see okay in this light, sweetheart?’_

_A nod._

_‘And do you feel well enough to use the alphabet?’_

_Another nod._

_‘Good. We’ll go as slowly as you need to, Pats, I promise; I just think it’ll be quicker if we stay on one page and I predict instead of flipping through the topics.’_

_Yet another nod as Deels found her way to the back of the book. Then they both took a moment to focus on the format of the letters:_

_A B C D            E F G H            I J K L_

_M N O P          Q R S T            U V W_

_X Y Z                . , ? !                 ‘ : ( )_

_‘Ready, love?’_

_A nod._

_‘First box?’_

_A nod._

_‘A, B, C, D?’_

_A nod._

_‘D. First box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Second box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Third box?’_

_A nod._

_‘I –’_

_A nod. Stop there._

_‘D I – hang on, darling, are you saying thank you? Save your strength; it’s unnecessary. We’re sitting here to talk, I_ suggested _it, and you know how I feel about_ you _feeling grateful. So start again, please, Pats. Unless, of course, you want me to tickle you into submission – but I don’t think that’s sensible right now, since you’re both scared and sick.’_

 _A hollow laugh. How do you_ always _guess when I’m deflecting, Deels? Even_ I _don’t realise it half the time, these days._

 _‘I just do, my dear. And I can also guess that the worst part of this is that you’re scared and sick without really knowing_ why _, but that definitely won’t be helped by delaying tactics. Don’t deny yourself the opportunity to have a discussion. You deserve it, and I’m with you all the way. Literally right beside you, love. Lean against me a bit more if you need any further proof.’_

_A slightly heavier lean, followed by a deep breath, and (finally) a nod._

_‘Ready?’_

_Another nod._

_‘Right. First box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Second box?’_

_A nod._

_‘E, F, G –’_

_A nod._

_‘G. First box?’_

_A nod._

_‘A –’_

_A nod._

_‘G A. First box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Second box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Third box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Fourth box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Fifth box?’_

_A nod._

_‘Q, R –’_

_A nod._

_‘G A R – Garden?’_

_A nod._

_‘You were in a garden? Here?’_

_A headshake. No. Not here. Not even in this country._

_‘First box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Second box?’_

_A nod._

_‘E, F G, H?’_

_A nod._

_‘H. First box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Second box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Third box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Fourth box?’_

_A nod._

_‘M, N, O –’_

_A nod._

_‘H O – home?’_

_Well, that wasn’t what I was going to say, not yet anyway, but... A half-nod._

_‘Was that not right?’_

_Don’t worry, Deels, it was close enough. I was just referencing the weather. Keep going. Eyes down to the book._

_‘Oh – hot?’_

_A nod, eyes wide. You really_ are _becoming telepathic, aren’t you?_

 _‘No, love, that was just a lucky guess following on from “home”. Singapore_ is _hot, after all, and humid. Especially in November.’_

 _Eyes even wider. Singapore? How do you_ know _!? This is too much, I can’t, and I don’t mean that humorously any more..._

 _‘Oh,_ cariad _, I’m sorry.’ Delia caught the sudden panic in Patsy’s gaze and internally scolded herself for going too far, too fast. Placing the book on the bed for now, she reached over her wife’s body, seeking the soft underside of her right palm. ‘I’m here,’ she whispered earnestly, applying pressure firm enough to offer centring comfort but fleeting enough not to cause an additional fright. ‘Breathe.’_

_A shaky, shallow, inhalation._

_‘And again.’_

_Another attempt._

_‘That’s better.’_

_Is it? It doesn’t feel it._

_‘I’ve got you, love, breathe with me.’_

_I’m breathing._

_But it’s not working._

_I – I – I –_

_I’m panicking and I don’t even know what it’s about._

_Help._

_Please._

_Oh, God, how I wish you could hear what I’m hollering in my head – but you can’t._

_So that’s that._

_I guess._

_Help._

_Help._

_Help._

_DEELS._

_~_

_‘DEELS!’_

_As with earlier that night, it took only the first consonant of Patsy’s call to spring Delia into action; in fact, she was up off the bed and offering the firm hold of a hug before her still-seated wife even realised she had spoken aloud._

_‘Deels – Deels – Deels –’_

_Delia was torn. Bouts of speech – even just a single word, as in this case – were now so rare that she revelled in their sound. Not merely because it was usually her name that brought them on nowadays, either. But she knew why this current stream had arrived and, as a consequence, her joy in it was more than a little muted. Just as she had used Patsy’s name as an anchor against her amnesia (a time which had been much on both their minds in recent weeks, following the anniversary of the accident itself), Patsy was now using hers to deter dementia_ and _dissociation. It seemed to be a sort of vessel, not only for the last vestiges of her wife’s memory but to keep her grounded in the present too. This was definitely flattering; yet the effort it took to get the words out was far more than they were worth._

_So the only sensible, sensitive response was to make her stop._

_Now._

_‘I’m here – shhhh, sweetheart. Shhhh.’ She rested her head on the seated shoulder before her, hoping that the brief buzz of sibilant speech through bone would go some way to settling Patsy’s panic. In another moment she might have reverted to Welsh, as she often did, but she sensed that now was not the time. Her love was lost in a limbo from long before she had learnt that language, so it would be little help in bringing her back. ‘Shhhh. I’m here, my Pats. Your Deels is here. And she’s not going anywhere. It’s 2017 and you’re eighty-four years old, love. It isn’t 1942.’ Patsy’s breathing suddenly slowed at that last statement. Delia allowed herself to exhale along with her wife and then, creating only the slightest space between their bodies, checked in. It was dangerous to invest too much in logical explanations at this stage, but... ‘Did that year mean something to you,_ cariad _?’_

_A half-nod, accompanied by a hiccough. Yes – at least, I think so, it seemed to help – but I’m not sure why._

_‘Breathe, Pats, you’ve sent your diaphragm into spasm by slowing down so quickly; but that’s a small price to pay for the panic disappearing, I suppose.’_

_A proper nod, now, and a proper breath. Indeed it is. ‘Deels?’_

_‘Yes, love? Would you like your book?’_

_A rather lengthy hesitation, eventually followed by a resigned sigh, and the return of a half-nod._

_‘We don’t have to use it if you don’t want to. Are you worried you won’t know what to ask?’_

_An emphatic nod this time, along with a guilty look upwards. I only have the garden and the girl – who I can’t tell you anything about – in my head, and even they aren’t that stable._

_‘That’s okay. I understand. I was the same, way back when, so it was easier to let you talk it out. Since you can’t do that now, would it help if_ I _talk and you stop me if you need clarification? As hard as it was for me to hear, I was mostly relieved to understand at last. I know it’s the opposite way around, and we’ve never discussed what we’d do if we got here, but I feel like you might feel that way, too?’_

_A nod and a rueful smile. Yes. Please. Put me out of my misery, even if it means I’ll be more miserable._

_Delia returned the grin – her gorgeous girl was still here, sarcastic and surviving, and she deserved the dignity of being here in_ every _way. Even the emotionally difficult ones. So, before her courage could fail her, she checked in one more time._

 _‘Sure,_ cariad _? It’s intense.’_

 _A nod. Sure. After all, I’m already dealing with the intensity, but without really knowing its impetus any more. An explanation will only make things easier. Hang on, can I...? Yes, I can. ‘_ Diolch _, Deels.’_

_‘Well, I can’t resist the reward of Welsh, can I? Ready to remember, then, love?’_

_A nod. You really are a sort of angel._

_‘Hey, stop stealing my lines, or I won’t say another word. I can see the sentence in your eyes.’_

_A playful pout. That’s not fair. I’m only emphasising the fact that you had it the wrong way around that day. And now_ you’re _stalling. Perhaps this slurred sibilance will spur you on. ‘_ Sori _, sweetheart.’_

 _‘Patience Elizabeth Busby-Mount._ You _are going to make_ me _cry in a minute, and then where will we both be?’_

_A giggle – that would make a change, eh? But something tells me I’ll be the one sobbing soon. Get it over with, please._

_‘That raised eyebrow dares_ me _to keep deflecting, doesn’t it, darling? Very well, I’ll stop. But where shall I_ start _?’ A pause for thought. ‘How old were you in your dream, love? I’ll hold up my fingers.’ Another pause for counting. ‘Eight?’_

_A half-nod._

_‘Nearly nine?’_

_A nod._

_Delia nodded, too, and drew a deep breath. ‘Okay,_ cariad _, I was right about Singapore. The garden was probably your home one, too, and if you were nearly nine but everything seemed fairly calm (which it would, if they were letting you play outside, even on private property) it was most likely November 1941. Before the – before the invasion, love. Or the fighting which preceded it.’ A pause to check in. ‘Am I going slowly enough?’_

_A nod – but I have a question. ‘Deels?’_

_‘Your book? Alphabet?’_

_A nod as it was already being fetched and opened._

_‘I’m proud of you, Pats. First box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Second box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Third box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Fourth box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Fifth box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Sixth box?’_

_A nod._

_‘U, V, W?’_

_A nod._

_‘W. World War Two?’_

_A nod. Yes. And the fact that you knew what I was going to ask answers my question._

_Delia also nodded, swallowing. ‘Yes, love, it was the middle of the Second World War. Singapore (where you lived with your family) was invaded in early February 1942, and people were taken as prisoners. Does that make sense?’_

_A nod, and a gaze held steady for a moment, before dropping to search for the book._

_‘First box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Second box?’_

_A nod._

_‘E, F –’_

_A nod._

_‘F. First box?’_

_A nod._

_‘A –’_

_A nod._

_‘F A. First box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Second box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Third box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Fourth box?’_

_A nod._

_‘M –’_

_A nod._

_‘F A M. Family?’_

_A nod._

_‘Yes, you lived there with your family – your father, your mother and – and your sister,_ cariad _.’_

 _A slow nod, digesting. Ah, so I_ did _have a sister. Is it odd that I’m using the past tense? It feels right, yet wrong, too. I suppose there’s nothing for it but to ask... eyes down to the book._

_‘First box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Second box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Third box?’ Delia’s voice was faltering now as she tried to work out what the word might be._

_A headshake._

_‘Fourth box?’_

_A headshake. If it helps, Deels, I’m in as much suspense as you._

_‘Fifth box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Sixth box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Seventh box?’_

_A nod. It had to be, love, but I can understand your surprise – we hardly ever go this far along._

_‘X, Y –’_

_A nod._

_‘Y. First box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Second box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Third box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Fourth box?’_

_A nod._

_‘M, N O –’_

_A nod._

_‘Y O. Younger?’ Delia’s tone rang forcibly bright, the upward inflection of the question’s ending coming out as an almost squeak._

_A nod._

_‘Yes, she – she – she was younger than you, sweetheart.’_

_Another slow nod as her heart broke; Deels’ use of the past tense simultaneously filling her with relief that her suspicions had not been wrong and rage that she had not remembered on her own._

_How disrespectful!_

_She wanted to stop this now, and sob, but she knew she needed to know more. So, steeling herself for one final round, she dropped her eyes to the book._

_Delia nodded, understanding, and kept her voice steady. ‘First box?’_

_A nod._

_‘A, B, C –’_

_A nod._

_‘C. First box?’_

_A nod._

_‘A –’_

_A nod._

_‘C A. First box?’ They both knew what was coming, now, but it was important for Patsy to spell it out in full. This was exactly the sort of sacred duty for which they did their best to save spoons._

_A headshake._

_‘Second box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Third box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Fourth box?’_

_A nod._

_‘M –’_

_‘C A M. First box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Second box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Third box?’_

_A headshake._

_‘Fourth box?’_

_A nod._

_‘M, N, O, P?’_

_A nod._

_‘C A M P. Camp?’ Delia was whispering now._

_A slow nod as she shut her eyes against the sudden assault of images the articulation of the entire word brought with it. How could I have forgotten this? How could I have forgotten_ them _!?_

_When her wife quietly closed the book and wrapped her once more within the warmth of her arms, Patsy finally gave herself permission to weep. They stayed like that for what felt like hours but was in reality little more than five minutes; a fitting foil to the fact that the events of over seventy years ago were now unfolding in her mind as though they had happened yesterday._

_Then, both ready to venture back to verbal communication, they broke the silence together. ‘I –’_

_A shared smile in spite of themselves._

_‘You go,_ cariad _, I just wanted to say I’m so very sorry.’_

 _Patsy shook her head fiercely. No._ I’m _so very_ grateful _to you for telling me. ‘_ Diolch _, Deels,’ she managed, before a pause for breath and some covert courage. ‘I – forgot. How –_ dare _– I – forget?’_

_Delia’s eyes widened at the revelation that these most recent tears had been more for guilt than grief, and she pulled Patsy in even closer than might seem practically possible. ‘No. No. No, love, I won’t allow that,’ she said firmly, then punctuated further mumbled negation by peppering kisses into her wife’s hair. ‘You might have forgotten aspects of what happened, but you hadn’t forgotten them. Not really. Let yourself have the happiness of running through the garden with your sister – you haven’t told me, but I’m guessing she was there too?’_

_A nod and a flash of sparkle in sad eyes. Yes, she was. My sister; we got soaked together and then Mother told us off. I remember that now. It wasn’t just a fabrication of my fever._ It actually happened!

 _Delia noticed the brief but genuine joy on her gorgeous (if not now so ginger, or blonde, as she would have been then) girl’s face and nodded too. ‘See, sweetheart, she’s there in that slight smile. They both are. They_ all _are. And I think they’d be glad to know you’ve been given even a small respite from the grief at last. It doesn’t diminish the depth of your love for them to have had a little of the trauma taken away. You’ve had nightmares for long enough,_ cariad _, I think you deserve some nice dreams –’ she broke off, giggling, as Patsy’s forehead bumped against her chest._

_‘Sorry – Deels – I –’_

_‘That wasn’t a deliberate indication that you’d like to lie down again, then, dear?’_

_Patsy looked up to meet her wife’s raised eyebrow, and shook her head, blushing furiously. No. Honestly._

_‘Shame. No, I’m kidding, the only thing you’re doing in this bed over the next few hours is sleeping. I’ll wake you at ten-ish, before the Cenotaph broadcast, though, if you’d like, since we didn’t stay up for the Albert Hall concert?’_

_A decisive nod. Of course. ‘_ Diolch, _Deels_.’

‘Dim problem _, Pats. No problem. No_ worries _– and that’s an order from your wife,_ ’ _Delia added, winking, as she scooped her arms underneath a slightly shivery pair of knees to set her beloved gently on her back. Then, turning Patsy onto her right side and propping her head up on a few extra pillows to ease any pressure on her chest, she used the close contact as an excuse for a caress. ‘Comfy,_ cariad _?_ ’

 _A slight nod. Comfy – and content. ‘_ Caru ti, cariad...’ _Then, trailing off as the effort of uttering those three Welsh words finally forced her to face up to the exhaustion not just of talking but of everything else involved in this tricky night, Patsy succumbed again to sleep. Sleep which, this time, was truly a tonic instead of keeping her on tenterhooks for potential panic._

~

Yes, last night had definitely been taxing, Delia thought tiredly as she tore herself briefly away from keeping watch over her wife to check the time on the bedside alarm clock. But broken sleep on her part was more than worth it if it had stopped some of the worries from becoming overwhelming.

Which it seemed to have, because Pats had slept solidly since they had finished talking – for almost another six hours.

Delia herself had only woken at just after eight, when she had slipped out of bed to turn the thermostat up in time for the house to be warm enough for cuddles on the couch in their pyjamas as they watched the procession and the laying of the wreaths. She had wanted to let her love have a lie-in, and it was now nine forty-five, which means they had roughly half an hour to get stuff sorted. Dressing would take too long, and too much energy, for them to do it beforehand (on top of changing pads, which was non-negotiable). Yet Patsy’s cold, especially her chest, wouldn’t cope well with even the slightest chill.

Hence the heating.

It might be an easy way, but Delia wasn’t quite ready for her gorgeous girl to go just yet. She supposed that was a similar sentiment to Pats wanting not to forget the camp, despite its devastatingly difficult associations. Any memory of her mother and sister was precious, no matter how painful it might be.

But hopefully her dreams after their discussion had been happy.

‘Deels?’

Delia returned her gaze towards the bed, and smiled at the sound of her nickname, knowing it was being spoken at the same time as Patsy opened her eyes. Probably even before. ‘ _Bore da, cariad_ ,’ she breathed, as the blue beauties blinked in an effort to get rid of sleep dust, ‘do you feel rested?’

A nod. ‘ _Diolch_ , Deels.’

‘No need to thank me, love, I’ve not been up that much longer. I was actually about to wake you, so you’ve saved me the trouble of feeling bad for dragging you out of your dreams. Were they better?’

Another nod. ‘Grace.’ A giggle.

Delia giggled, too, and grinned – Patsy had remembered her beloved sister’s name with no prompting whatsoever. It was a relief to know her studious avoidance of using it last night had worked. ‘I’m glad, darling,’ she said simply, because she was. ‘Now, would you like to get up? I thought we wouldn’t bother with dressing and just bundle you up in blankets on the couch. I’ve put the heating on, and there’s a cup of rosehip tea cooling on the side here, as requested last night. An incentive to sweeten the fact that the deal rests on me changing your pad before anything else.’

A nod and a heavy (if good-humoured) sigh. Fair enough. Rosehip and Remembrance Sunday, eh?

~

_On the evening of Thursday 10 th November 1955, Delia Busby decided to skip lectures the next day. Her Mam would have been horrified. (Truth be told, she was slightly horrified herself.) Had she someone asked her to consider the possibility of such behaviour prior to starting her course in September, she knew she would have flatly refused. Ostensibly because she was grateful to have been given the opportunity to train at so prestigious a teaching hospital as the Royal London – but really just because she’d _always _loved learning and didn’t want to miss a moment, wherever she was. Especially as they were now nearing the end of the first term’s teaching and thinking ahead to placements. But, if she had been struck most by any single piece of advice about “good practice”, it was that patients should come first. And she liked to think she was being exemplary in her adherence to that axiom by acting in this manner today (or rather tomorrow)._

_It was indeed for the benefit of a patient._

_One in particular, who had the convenient cover of a name which, to all intents and purposes, was the same word._

_The fact that Patsy also happened to be her friend felt, frankly, irrelevant – not least since she had (perhaps inadvertently) given Delia the idea._

_By missing the last three days._

_Not only that, she had apparently been deliberately avoiding all interaction, even outside of contact hours. It was most unlike her; because she was a diligent student, firstly, and secondly, she seemed to struggle with solitude. Delia hadn’t quite grasped why, yet, not least because her slightly older friend didn’t make an extra effort to socialise, either. Far from it – but she had this wistful way about her at times that made one wonder if she had once been much more outgoing._

_This sudden absence was therefore more than a little alarming and, despite having let things lie for three days out of respect for Patsy’s privacy, Delia didn’t feel she was doing her duty as either friend or fellow student to leave things alone any longer. Even in their brief few months as corner-corridor mates, she had come to understand that confidences were something to be coaxed out of that formidable forehead, not collared – but there was a limit to leniency, and it had just about been reached. So, instead of giving up after another unanswered knock on her neighbour’s door, tonight she was determined to swap timidity for temerity and check up on her patient._

_Her patient Patience._

_She wasn’t sure what she would discover when she did – Patsy might be absolutely fine, and consequently furious – but she had a sneaking suspicion she was sick, or sad, at the very least. Whatever it was would probably involve a difficult discussion (even if only through awkwardness) and Delia wanted to signal that she was there for the long haul, ready and willing to meet the taller young woman somewhere in the middle of their two heights and stick by her, regardless of the ramifications._

_Hence having put on her pyjamas already; and the decision to let tomorrow’s lectures lie. She was prepared to stay up all night, if necessary, and something told her Patsy might need her to do so._

_But first she had to get her friend to let her in – literally as well as figuratively. This thought both tickled and terrified her as she tiptoed barefoot down the short stretch of corridor between their rooms. Pull yourself together, Busby, she whispered sternly. It’s not like you’re entering a warzone, is it!? Have some respect for the real struggles of the people we remember at this time of year! Then, with that final hushed sentence ringing in her ears, she screwed her courage, raising a hand to the door to knock._

_~_

_‘Deels?’_

_‘Yes, Pats, it’s me – how did you know?’_

_I didn’t, I just hoped – but Patsy didn’t voice that thought aloud. Instead, feigning nonchalance, she opted for a statement of fact. ‘You’ve knocked about now every night for the past three.’_

_Delia was silent for several seconds as she took in the deeper meaning behind the seemingly innocuous phrase, along with its tone, which suggested it had been uttered by Patsy’s “Nurse Mount” persona. Not only had she been heard, she had been ignored. This did not bode well. Nevertheless, that particularly crisp Received Pronunciation reared its head most often as a cover for discomfort, so it was worth probing a little further. ‘Would I be all right to come in?’ Then, pausing again in order for her humour to have its maximum possible effect, ‘That is, if you’re decent?’_

_The smallest chuckle was discernible. Thank goodness for these thin walls. ‘Of course I am, Deels, I’m already in my pyjamas –’ Patsy broke off from speaking when the doorknob turned, completing the sentence only in her head – and I have been for the last three days._

_Delia grinned with relief as she entered the room; that had been far simpler than she had supposed. Yet any joy she felt faded the moment her eyes adjusted to the (unexpectedly dim) lighting and took in the full impact of the sight before them. ‘Oh, sweetheart, when you said you were in your pyjamas I didn’t realise you meant in_ bed _! I’m so sorry for disturbing you – I should go!’_

_‘No, stay –’ Patsy stuttered at the speed with which the words left her lips, hoping in the immediate aftermath that they hadn’t sounded too pleading, and adding a more measured sentence as soon as she could. ‘It’s nice to see you, Deels.’_

_The grin began to reform on her friend’s face. ‘And you, Pats. Are you sure you don’t mind me being here?’_

_A fervent shake of a blonde head, propped up on pillows against a comfortingly cool headboard. ‘Not at all. In fact, I’m glad you are, because I’ve been feeling awful about disappearing but I didn’t really have much choice – or time to chat to you before I did.’_

_A fervent shake of a brunette head, now. ‘No apologies needed. I’m just relieved you’re all right.’ A pause. ‘You_ are _all right, aren’t you?’_

_‘I’m fine,’ Patsy said, nodding earnestly – before being betrayed by a sneeze. Ah well, at least they had only started today, so she hadn’t yet had to stifle them whilst Deels was trying to sleep on the other side of their shared wall._

_‘Are you sure about that, Student Nurse Mount?’_

_Another, slightly less earnest, nod in response to the gently-accusing arch of the younger woman’s eyebrow. ‘I’m fine, it’s just a cold.’ A pause to check whether that had been sufficiently placatory._

_‘Pats –’_

_Apparently not. ‘Honestly, Deels, it is just a cold.’_

_‘You wouldn’t miss three days of lectures for that.’_

_‘Wouldn’t I? Germs are dangerous things Deels – we both know that – and I don’t like to risk passing them on.’ Oh, how much untold truth there was in that explanation; why, then, did it feel so like a lie?_

_Delia seemed almost as unconvinced as she was herself. ‘Yet you’re prepared to risk the wrath of our tutors? You’re usually so studious, Pats; I’m sorry for pushing you, it just doesn’t make sense.’_

_No, it doesn’t, does it? Not even to me. Still, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, and it seems as though we’ll be there tonight. So... Patsy took as deep a breath as her suddenly constricted chest would allow, and then spoke, simultaneously hopeful and fearful. ‘_ I’m _sorry. I’m being deliberately vague and that’s unfair to the value I place on our friendship. If there’s anyone I’m going to talk to about this, it’s you. But –’_

 _‘But nothing. You don’t owe me anything,_ cariad _–’ Having first cut Patsy off, Delia cut herself off too, cursing the careless slip into her native tongue. It was far too early to call her friend that._

 _Patsy shook her head, swallowing. ‘I know. I owe it to_ myself _, though. I can’t just pretend the first week of November is non-existent every year, especially after we’re qualified, or even when we’re on placement. But the only way I’ll cope with actually engaging in the national mood is by externalising it instead of internalising it. I have to get it out. And, now you’re here, tonight seems as good a time as any. Is that okay with you?’_

_Delia nodded. ‘Of course. I came prepared – I’ve got my pyjamas on, too, as you may have noticed – and I’m not going to lectures tomorrow, either.’_

_‘I’m such a bad influence on you. Whatever would your Mother – sorry, Mam! – say?’ Patsy grinned at her friend’s blush, before pushing the duvet back slightly, and patting the small space beside her. ‘Come cuddle up next to me?’_

_The shorter woman needed no persuading; she hadn’t realised how cold she’d become, standing barefoot in the middle of this drafty room the mirror image of her own. Mumbling gratitude as she slipped under the covers, she was nevertheless very much surprised by the contrast between her skin’s chilly temperature and that of the comparatively toastier body against which she was now bolstered. ‘Pats – let me feel your head, please?’_

_Touched by the request for consent, Patsy complied, although not without protesting. ‘I’m fine, Deels...’ she began, but trailed off as the pressure of a small palm on her clammy skin provided a soothing coolth she hadn’t quite realised she needed._

_‘You’re feverish, that’s what you are.’ Delia was all business now, up and out of the bed as quickly as she had got into it. ‘Only a little, but still enough to warrant a wet flannel on that forehead, Patient Patience. If you want to talk, you need to be well and lucid.’_

_Patsy said nothing, simply watching in wonder as the Welshwoman stalked over to the sink. Sometimes it was easier not to argue, especially when Delia was right..._

_‘What’s that smirk for, Miss Mount?’ her fierce friend asked as she returned to bed, brandishing the prescribed cloth._

_‘Just that you’re going to make the most brilliant Nurse, Miss Busby. Thank you.’_

_‘No, no “thank yous”, or I’ll shut you up by stuffing this in your mouth instead.’ A brief pause, as they both laughed. Delia used the distraction to place the sort-of poultice against Patsy’s fevered brow, knowing that (for all their proximity) the older, independent woman would still be acutely aware of, and embarrassed by, the contact. ‘There, does that feel nice?’_

_A silent nod, followed swiftly by another burst of laughter at the brunette’s bemused expression. ‘Well, you told me I couldn’t say thank you!’_

_‘I did. You say it too much. But it isn’t a suitable strategy if the alternative involves you moving your head away from my vitally important medical interventions!’_

_‘I suppose not, no. Sorry.’_

_‘You aren’t allowed to say_ that _either, Mount, you minx.’_

_Patsy fought to keep a straight face. ‘Whoops. I guess we’re going to have to reach some kind of compromise.’_

_‘I guess so. Hmmm...’ Delia paused, pensive, and her silliness immediately evaporated. ‘Well, if you really want to express your gratitude, you could start by letting me in on the secret that’s serious enough to make you skip almost a full week of lectures (since we’ll be missing them tomorrow together, which brings your tally up to four days). Only if you’re feeling fine, of course?’_

_‘I am,’ Patsy reassured, happier to be back in a position where she could be protective rather than protected. ‘It’s intense, though.’_

_‘I’m already dealing with the intensity.’_

_Patsy smiled at her friend’s frankness. ‘Yes, I suppose you are,_ Deels _.’_

_‘Don’t deflect with puns and wordplay, Pats, or you’ll try my patience.’_

_‘Nicely done. Very well, Nurse Busby.’ A pause to pluck up courage because, once she started, she knew she would be utterly unable to stop. ‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ Delia nodded, biting her lip to check the chuckle at the reference to the children’s stories told on the wireless. Patsy caught her eye briefly, and grinned, before looking away and continuing. ‘Then I’ll begin.’ A deep breath. ‘And, actually, I’d best begin with your much earlier question about our tutors. They already know I’m off. They gave me permission. I have a dispensation because of the subject matter; not out of compassion, by any means, but because I’m already – rather – rather well-versed in it, I suppose. One has no need to learn the theory behind something one has directly experienced.’ And yet here she was using the distance of third-person academic prose to get through this talk. Time to be a little braver. ‘They are teaching on typhoid fever this week, correct?’_

_Delia was surprised at the sudden enquiry, but sensed it was strategic, so nodded. ‘Yes, and all sorts of similar diseases, mostly contracted in close, unclean environments like those brought about by war. In my humble opinion, I think it was incredibly insensitive to have as the topic for this time of year –’ she broke off as Patsy opened her mouth to speak again._

_‘That’s why they did it – they want us to remember.’_

_‘But surely there must be people on the course who were personally affected? We’re only just marking the tenth anniversary of the end of the last war...’ Delia’s eyes widened, and Patsy nodded, head down as she engaged in an intricate inspection of the blankets bunched around both their legs._

_‘I – I was – am – one of those people. I’ve told you that I grew up in Singapore, but I’ve left out the details about how most of that growing up was done in several camps during the Japanese occupation. Goodness, I would have left those details out of everything, even my application to train here, were it not for the fact that they asked about medical history. Well, that and it being the primary fuel for my vocation to nurse. Watching your Mother and (younger) sister die in a squalid hospital hut through a combined lack of nutrition and proper sanitation apparently has that sort of transformative effect on your psyche. As does finding out your Father survived only for him to ship you off to England – ostensibly to complete your education, but really because he can’t bear the sight of you. Not when you look too much like them both, and he loved them more.’_

_Patsy stopped speaking, shocked into silence by the unexpectedly bitter edge to her admission, and the two young women sat quietly together as they digested this new dimension of their relationship; Delia’s sole response having been to still her friend’s trembling fingers and twine them together with her own._

_I’m here, the small (but so significant) touch seemed to declare. I’m here, I hear, and I’ve got you._

_It was the best thing she could have done. No horrified gasp, followed by crushing (though well-meant) condolences. No words at all, not even a breath. Somehow she knew there was nothing to say, and somehow the knowledge of her knowing said everything._

_Not that Patsy would have minded if it had been different – that made her seem ungrateful for the genuine care and support exhibited by other reactions to grief – but to have it just accepted (especially by someone who had not, apparently, yet experienced the emotion herself) was a blessed relief._

_Still, they couldn’t stay silent forever. ‘Sorry, Deels, that was all very abrupt. And angry, too. I’m not normally angry.’_

_Without breaking the contact of their clasped right hands, Delia raised her left to Patsy’s chin and lifted it so that their gazes met – and blue eyes bored into blue eyes. ‘What did I say about sorries, hmmm?’_

_The older woman laughed in spite of herself, feeling very young as she did so. ‘They aren’t allowed.’_

_‘That’s right. But anger_ is _allowed. In fact, I’d say it’s encouraged. At least it is here, with me. All emotions are. What happened to you is inhumane, but you are human, and one of your rights as a human is to feel safe. You can’t feel safe if you constantly have to moderate your responses in order to protect other people. As much as I’m impressed that they let you have time off this week, I also think they should have addressed the traumatic nature of the topic more generally, because that, in many ways, is the aspect which is most important to our training. People need to be aware of how emotive nursing will be as a profession – and then to be given the tools to tackle it. Aside from for your_ own _sanity, you shouldn’t have felt you needed to be absent this week. And you definitely shouldn’t have felt you had to avoid_ me _. It’s not your responsibility to manage my feelings, or anyone else’s, especially not to the detriment of yours. All right?’ Patsy hesitated and made to look away, so Delia let go of her chin, dropping her now free left hand to a slightly slumped shoulder. When her friend was still unable to respond, she spoke again, carefully keeping her tone level. ‘Let me put it like this – you think it’s necessary and important for grief to be marked on a national level, yes?’_

_A nod. Yes._

_‘Including outrage, not just for the sake of the people who are gone, but the people who remember them?’_

_Another nod, albeit rather more muted than the first._

_‘And would you agree that a society in which people are unafraid to acknowledge the impact of bereavement, in all its forms, would be both more compassionate and peaceful?’_

_A vehement nod now, and a gaze held again at last._

_‘In that case, I think you have a duty to allow yourself those things on a personal level, too. You said as much earlier but, in all your usage of “externalising” and “internalising”, I think you forgot to_ centralise _the reality of your own lived experience. You’ve started to change that today, but that means you’re basically beginning again. I understand that, just like I understand why you’re sick, and I want to help. So, no apologies, or gratitude. If anything, they should come from me, because I’m so sorry you have had those experiences, but extremely grateful you felt able to tell me. Now, next time you have a nightmare, I’ll come and cuddle you like this – if you’ll let me?’_

_‘You’ve heard them?’_

_‘These walls are thin.’_

_‘I’m sorry, Deels – I mean, thank you – I mean – Oh, I’m so embarrassed. It’s just, I feel so guilty for feeling angry and fearful – and for feeling guilty – because I should just be able to remember the happy times. It’s been eleven years...’_

_‘The same number as your age when it happened. You were a child. Time doesn’t work like that, sweetheart, and neither does trauma. “Nurse Mount” to be knows that, even if “Patsy” doesn’t.’_

_‘But it’s not me who died, Deels. I should be grateful that I’m still here.’_

_‘And you_ are _. It’s why you’re going into nursing. The fact you still feel grief doesn’t negate your gratitude. You might say it spurs you on more, Nurse Mount, and gives you a far richer reason and reward.’_

_‘Do you really think so?’_

_‘I do.’_

_Patsy began to cry, and then laughed at herself for doing so. ‘This is ridiculous. It’s not even either of their anniversaries. I just miss them so much.’_

_‘It’s nearly Remembrance Weekend, Pats, you’re allowed to be sad. So sob it out with me, and I’ll make you some rosehip tea in the morning to help with your mourning. Well, your fever, but they’re one and the same thing. Come here.’_


	12. December - Poignant Poinsettia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 2017 - an ending.
> 
> In 1963 - some new beginnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should start by saying I have never wanted to use an 'Archive Warning' less, but its inclusion was inevitable given the plot of this fic. I've endeavoured to make it as gentle as possible, as well as to fill the flashback section with as much fluff as I could find in my heart. I should follow that by apologising for the extremely long hiatus in updating this. It was partly due to personal family circumstances I could not have predicted, and partly due to the structural presence of a certain song which is incredibly important and emotive to me. It was always going to be included, _because_ it is important, but I didn't quite account for _how much_ its importance would impact upon me as I wrote. And, if I wanted to do this story justice, I knew I needed to take care - and time.
> 
> The song, as used in the chapter, can be found here: https://youtu.be/jxxTHzERTsk and here https://youtu.be/jxxTHzERTsk
> 
> Hopefully you'll approve of this ending after so long a wait. This is the penultimate chapter, which will be followed by an epilogue.
> 
> Posted with gratitude for your patience and kindness <3

‘What do you _mean_ she won’t go to hospital!?’

‘Please, Trix, Pats is right here...’ Delia trailed off, exasperated but exhausted, and gestured towards the bed next to them where her wife and Em lay side by side, snuggled up in “spoonie” solidarity (duvet off, heating on). She really didn’t have the energy for this conversation right now. When their friends had insisted on descending en masse earlier today, she had agreed on the proviso that everyone would be as _patient_ as possible and respect Patsy’s decisions. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been discussed in detail. Quite the opposite. Every possible practitioner had been involved and consulted, from the team who had made the original diagnosis around this time last year to more recent arrivals like Sophie. And all of their friends had said they understood; being mostly very well acquainted with the minutiae of medicine, and personally and professionally committed to putting people at the centre of their care, how could they _not_? Yet, as had been observed in the abstract on several occasions, this was different.

Patsy, for all their puns on her name, was far more than a mere patient. She was a friend, a former colleague and (in Delia’s case) a wife.

_Gwraig._

_Fy ngwraig._

_Fy nghariad_.

 _Cariad_.

 _My_ wife.

 _My_ love.

Love.

Oh, love...

Yes, this was different. On all sides, since it would seem no amount of academic assessments could have prepared them for being confronted with the reality of the situation. Still, this was Patsy’s choice, and Delia had hoped Trixie, of all people, would have best comprehended her reasons.

After all, Christopher had made much the same request as he got towards the end, albeit in a hospice rather than at home.

Perhaps, though, the bonds of female friendship were firmer than those of familial love. If so, Delia decided, she was being unfair to find fault; because not everyone was lucky enough to combine those two things...!

Best friend and beloved.

_Ffrind._

_Annwyl_.

_Gwraig annwyl._

Beloved wife.

The diminutive Welshwoman determinedly shook off her second slip into solipsism. She – they – were not alone. Regardless of what the right response might be, if there _was_ one, this was certainly not the moment to be woolgathering in her native tongue. Out of all the six people currently crowded into their bedroom, except for Delia herself, Trixie had known Patsy the longest. She deserved support. Goodness knew she had given them enough over the last year; and this must be bringing all sorts of memories back.

Still, she could _try_ and be tactful, couldn’t she?

Apparently not around Pats, if her behaviour thus far was any indication of how the rest of the afternoon would be progressing – because, despite poor Barbara’s best efforts to calm her down, she was still going. Ah well, Delia thought (not in the least tactfully herself!) as she refocused on her surroundings, at least I didn’t miss much.

‘Could you speak a little more softly, do you think, Trixie dear? Patsy has shut her eyes to block out sensory overload, but she isn’t asleep, so I’m sure she can hear every word we’re saying...’

Trixie refused to be cajoled into quietness. ‘That is my point, Babs. She _needs_ to hear how _irresponsible_ and _selfish_ she’s being. It’s _pneumonia_. In _December_. It _snowed_ yesterday, for goodness’ sake!’

The subject of her speech shifted a little on the bed, coughing, and everyone else held their breath as Delia bent down to check in. ‘Okay, _cariad_?’

Patsy opened her eyes for a moment and nodded.

‘No nodding, now, just blinks; your pillows are precarious enough as it is.’

A blink and a slight, sly, smile, followed by a pointed glance at Trixie’s back. Okay. I just thought you might not notice me over all this noise...

Delia choked back the chuckle threatening to bubble from her throat, but the stifled sound made it seem like tears, and drew attention rather than deflecting it. ‘Are you all right, sweetie?’ Trixie asked, suddenly contrite.

‘I’m fine. It’s Pats who isn’t – although she hasn’t got pneumonia. Not quite. If she did, there’s no way I’d have let Em lie next to her like that, not with _her_ compromised immune system –’ she broke off as Patsy and Emily snorted simultaneously. ‘Behave, you two.’

‘She’s right,’ agreed a clear, crisp, but compassionate voice from the other side of the bed. ‘I think everyone needs to be brought up to speed and reminded of the parameters of Patsy’s palliative care plan. Might I suggest it happens in the kitchen, though? Perhaps you, Trixie, Barbara and Tom could take a moment to replenish the tea and biscuit selection, Delia? The three of us’ll be fine here, won’t we, ladies?’

As Pats and Em both nodded, Delia looked across the room to meet the eyes of Kalli, their young friend’s (fairly) new companion, and grinned in gratitude. Then, before moving to the door to lead the way down the passage to the kitchen, she leant over to squeeze her fellow Welshie’s supine shoulder. ‘Hang on to this one, _cariad_ – she’s a keeper. But I suspect you know that already,’ she said smoothly, watching as the two young women blushed the same shade of beetroot. Okay, maybe “companion” didn’t quite cover it as an adjective – not this century, anyway...

‘I rather think I’ve got the better end of the deal,’ Kalli replied, emerging from embarrassment and stopping Delia in her tracks with the sincerity of her statement. ‘Miss Thomas offers herself as a practical model to help me along with my physiotherapy training, as a result of which I’ve almost drowned her in the hydro pool several times already, and all she asks in return is the occasional cuddle – sorry, _cwtch_ – on the couch. But that’s enough about us – although, since we’re on the subject of physio, Patsy, it might be sensible for me to have another go at clearing your chest once this lot have left us alone for a bit. What would you say? Blinks, not nods, remember; don’t think I didn’t catch that one just now.’

Patsy blinked, and Delia grinned again, both because Kalli already had the measure of her gorgeous girl and because Patsy had allowed her to _get_ that measure so quickly. She had only been around since early September, when her course started, and three months was a mere moment against the Mount scale of emotional availability! It was a short span where Em was concerned too, actually. _Da iawn_ , darling, she thought – it’s about time you let down those walls and allowed yourself to be loved. Delia felt like a proud grandparent, but she voiced none of those sentiments, opting instead for perhaps the most British of all phrases. ‘Right,’ she said simply, ‘Trix, you’re in charge of the first stages of tea, because I need to help Em’s Classical Muse of a girlfriend shift _my_ sweetheart onto her stomach. Fair?’

‘Fair,’ Trixie responded, smiling. ‘I wondered how long it was going to take you to twig, Delia.’

‘Oh, I had twigged, Trix. I probably knew before they did –’ she paused, and found confirmation (once again) in two pairs of flushed cheeks, ‘I just wanted to be certain – and the fact that Kalliope here knows what a _cwtch_ is told me that they’ve had _that_ chat at last.’

‘I’m not sure I can accept “Classical Muse”, contrary to my name’s impression,’ Kalli cut in, covering awkwardness with humour in a manner with which they were all too well-accustomed themselves, ‘I’m far too short and mousy for that title.’

Delia giggled. ‘I know the feeling; it’s hard work keeping up with these giants, even when they’re both sitting most of the time. We clearly share a preference for tall blondes... But you _will_ accept the “girlfriend”?’

‘I will if you will, Tommo?’ Rather than reply to Delia’s question, Kalli directed one of her own at Em, who nodded, but hid her face against Patsy’s conveniently-close shoulder. The older woman chuckled at the contact – and that simple sound made the emotions in the room even more charged.

Everyone was silent for a few seconds.

Then Patsy coughed, causing Em to startle, and the spell was broken.

Trixie, Barbara and Tom began traipsing down the corridor, taking empty cups and plates with them. ‘Refills all round, sweeties? There’s no rush, we’re quite happy to camp out in the kitchen for as long as necessary. I’m sure that won’t be a hardship, surrounded as we are by the comforts of Chelsea...’ Delia and Patsy rolled their eyes in unison at their old friend’s retreating back, and Patsy coughed with the effort, earning her a rebuke from the other end of the flat. ‘That’ll teach you for making fun of my good taste, Patience!’

‘More like it’ll teach _her_ not to torment you when you can’t reply, eh love?’

A blink.

‘Indeed,’ said Kalli indignantly, albeit with a smile, as she walked around the bed to shut the door. ‘There are some moments when humour is a hindrance rather than a help – though I have yet to find a successful way to convince Em of this fact, don’t I, dearest? Any advice, Delia?’

Em squealed in good-natured frustration and shot her (newly-announced) girlfriend a glare. I can’t reply, either, this is _deliberate discrimination_!

‘Tickle her,’ the older woman said seriously. ‘That might seem counterintuitive, but if _you_ make _Em_ laugh first, then she’ll be too distracted to deflect. It’s always worked with you, hasn’t it, Pats?’ she asked as she poked her wife affectionately on the bridge of her nose.

A begrudging blink as they all giggled, softly, in order to avoid attracting attention from the others.

Kalli nodded, her tone deadpan. ‘It’d be good physio, too. I’ll give it a try, then.’

Delia grinned guiltily at her fellow Welshie as she continued her encouragement. ‘Do. But not now; because – and I mean this in the kindest possible way, Em – I don’t want my wife getting kicked in the head if you spasm.’

‘Quite. This one’s got some power in her, haven’t you, _cariad_? But, talking of distraction, we’re digressing from our duties – your chest won’t get any less congested if we stand here chatting, will it, Patsy?’

No blink and a small smile. Thank you for addressing me directly instead of using the third-person; that sets you in good stead for your future with Em.

Delia paused a moment before she responded, marvelling at the combination of professionalism and compassion exuding from Em’s girlfriend. It reminded her so much of someone else she knew...

‘Penny for them?’

‘Just that you sound like Pats – and I don’t just mean your voice or your English-accented Welsh pronunciation – doesn’t she, _cariad_?’

 A blink. Yes. And she _looks_ just like you – but not nearly as beautiful...

‘Pats agrees, and says you _look_ like _me_. Was that deliberate, Em? Combining your two favourite people?’

The younger Welshwoman blushed at her older friend’s wink, causing Kalli to blush, and stutter slightly, too. ‘Well, if it _was_ , I can only say I’m flattered – because you really are two of the most remarkable women I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. Not to mention them being responsible for bringing you out of your shell, right, sweetheart?’

The last question was addressed again to Em and, as she nodded, they all pondered its significance. The four of them being in this room together, alone, suddenly seemed profoundly poignant – heartbreaking yet hopeful – and the silence they were sharing now was imbued with too many emotions to encapsulate adequately in speech.

Which was probably a good thing, since two of them no longer (or had never had) that privilege.

Still, there were three other people in the kitchen waiting to have a very specific kind of conversation, and they shouldn’t be kept on tenterhooks just for the sake of prolonging silent solidarity.

Nor, for that matter, should the _reason_ for that conversation – Patsy’s chest, even if it wasn’t quite pneumonia, because they didn’t really know how serious it might be.

So, somewhat sadly, Kalli spoke up again. ‘I’ll also say I feel I should live up to that comparison by doing my job as well as you have done; and that involves clearing your congestion as much as I feasibly can, Patsy. Shall we, Delia?’

Delia nodded, but didn’t reply immediately, debating how to phrase things in her head. ‘Thank you for keeping us on track. Pats love, before we shift you onto your tummy, and whilst it’s just the four of us... Might it be sensible if I changed your pad? I don’t want you lying here feeling uncomfortable whilst I’m out talking to the others, and we haven’t done it since before everyone arrived this morning. I know we don’t normally do it around company, _cariad_ , but these two aren’t _really_ company –’

A blink to cut off the stream of consciousness. Yes, love, that’s fine.

‘ _Diolch_ , darling. It’ll be nice and quick if you’d be happy for Kalli to hold your legs steady, too?’

A blink and a questioning look at their young friend’s girlfriend. I’m happy if _you’re_ happy?

Kalli nodded. ‘Of course. We’re all girls – and “girlies”, as my Mother would say, in her infinite wisdom, thinking she’s down with all the current “lingo”. Em could probably do with a new sanitary towel about now as well, couldn’t you, sweetheart?’

Em nodded, groaning, and shared a grimace with Patsy.

‘Oh, bad luck, _cariad_ ,’ Delia said kindly. ‘At least it’ll be over by –’ No. She wasn’t going to finish that sentence. It was far too close to home. Instead, forcing herself to smile, she ignored all her own advice from earlier and opted for humour. ‘We can sort you both out together, though? That might ease your awkwardness.’

A nod, a blink, and two bashful (but brilliant) smiles.

‘Right, I’ll grab your stuff, Pats, if you feel safe with Kalli standing next to you?’

A blink.

‘Fabulous. Is there anything you two need? We have a whole drawer full of exciting items now...’

She was joking and they all knew it, but Em nodded, glancing worriedly at the white cotton on which she lay. We don’t usually do this on a bed, and if the stains on some of my shoes are anything to go by –

Patsy and Delia both cut off her stress; one with a subtle headshake and the other with soothing speech. ‘That’s what inco sheets are for, sweetheart, if you’d like one? They feel horrid but they’re good at their job. Otherwise you could hide away in the loo?’

A headshake. No – getting up and down again would take too long, and we’re already keeping the others waiting, _and_ Patsy’s chest.

‘Chill, _cariad_ , I’ll grab an extra sheet.’

A nod. _Diolch_ , Deels – even though I remember how awful they are from school.

Delia walked briskly over to the chest of drawers to collect the various necessities and then, before either of them could blink, was back. ‘Is it okay if we start with you, Pats, since Kalli’s on this side of the bed? Are you all right to wait, Em?’

A nod and a blink.

Of course, Deels.

Thanks, love.

‘Okay. I’ll talk it through as we go, so we’re all together. Kalli’s going to support your head as we roll, so you can breathe easily (I know that’s new, but it seems sensible, as there are two of us) – right, Ms Physio-in-Training?’

Kalli nodded, her eyes sparkling. ‘Right, Nurse.’

‘Perfect. Glad we’re on the same page. Now, Pats, I’m going to turn you onto your right side, slip the sheet under you and your pyjama trousers down – this bit’s the same as when we do it just with us, except easier, because Kalli’s holding your head. Ready?’

A blink. Ready.

‘Fabulous. That’s the first stage done, darling. Onto your back again, and we’ll re-position your pillows, so your head is comfortable enough for Kalli to help me with your legs. Okay?’

A blink as the pillows were plumped. Okay.

‘Comfy, _cariad_ , or do you need to shift?’

No blink. No thanks, love, I’m fine.

‘Great. Happy for Kalli to step away from you and move down here next to me?’

A blink. Happy.

Kalli grinned at Patsy as she followed Delia’s instructions and joined her at the foot of the bed. ‘Thank you for trusting me – your wife really knows what she’s doing, eh?’

A blink and a small smile. Yes – but so do you. I’m so thrilled for you and Em.

‘Oi, Missus, stop distracting the young’un with your beautiful blue eyes. It won’t get you out of this; you’re only prolonging things...’

A blink and a blush as Kalli put a gentle hand on each of her thighs. That’s not fair at all. You know I only have eyes for you – Oh, I understand, that was a deliberate diversion so I wouldn’t notice you getting the pad off! _Diolch_ , Deels.

‘ _Croeso, cariad._ You’re welcome, love. Brace yourself for these wet wipes, now, though. Kalli will keep hold of your legs in case the cold makes you kick out. Okay?’

A blink. It’s a good job I don’t speak that much – it doesn’t matter if I grit my teeth, because you aren’t waiting on a verbal response. Fuck, that’s freezing!

‘ _Sori_ , sweetheart, nearly done.’

A blink. It’s fine – far be it from me to complain about cleanliness, even if it’s chilly. But they’re making me cough; and here I thought I was getting a few minutes reprieve from that...

‘Whoops! That’s a sign I need to hurry up, isn’t it?’

A blink and another cough. Curse this cruddy chest of mine. All those years of cigarettes.

‘Okay, _cariad_?’

A blink. But be quick.

‘Ready for the new pad, Pats?’

A blink. Ready – wait, you’ve already done it? When did you manage that!?

Delia tapped her nose and grinned. ‘Trade secrets, covered up by your conveniently-timed coughing fit. Speaking of, are you all right on your back for a tiny bit longer?’

A blink. I’m fine. Em’s turn now.

‘Indeed,’ Delia demurred, as she and Kalli made their way to the other side of the bed. ‘Em, _cariad_ , as you aren’t standing up, is rolling the best way to shift you, too?’

A nod and a grimacing grin. I don’t really care how you do it – just get it over with.

‘Don’t stress, sweetheart, it’s nothing “your dear friend Deels” hasn’t dealt with before, is it?’ Kalli ran her hand over Em’s tummy to ease some of the tension in a tender caress as both young women checked with Delia for confirmation.

‘No, although not for quite some time, now. Mine, that is – Pats and I have definitely helped with yours, and it’s honestly no hassle, _cariad_.’

A hesitant nod.

‘Ready, gorgeous girl?’

Patsy and Delia locked eyes, laughing to themselves at Kalli’s unwitting choice of Delia’s favourite (English) endearment, and then she offered a quick explanation to the younger women. ‘That’s what I call Pats – you picked a good’un for your future wife, Em,’ she paused as they both spluttered, ‘and, now that you’re sufficiently preoccupied by my presumptuousness, let’s sort out your sanitary towel. Two ticks, that’s all it’ll take.’

A rather red-faced nod.

‘Good for you. You’re just that little bit more flail-y than Pats, but your head’s fine to be left to its own devices, so we can alter our approach to suit. I’m guessing you’d prefer me to turn you and Kalli to take down your jeans and things?’

Another nod, along with the briefest bubble of laughter at “flail-y”, which was quite possibly the most accurate and evocative description of her body’s quirks she’d ever heard.

‘That’s fine. We could both do everything one-handed, of course, but it’s much speedier this way. Ready to roll, Welsh Wheels?’

Another brief burst of laughter at that epithet, and a grin in gratitude from Em for the distraction, as Delia deftly turned her on her side so that Kalli could do _her_ job, slipping a sheet underneath her, and her jeans _down_. ‘Comfy?’ the younger woman checked in, concerned.

A nervous nod. Comfy, but be quick.

Whilst Delia rolled Em onto her back again, Kalli returned the nod, and changed the towel as quickly as she could, bunching the old one up to be hidden in the wrapper left over from the new. Then she grabbed a wet wipe, grimacing in apology when her girlfriend squealed at the chill, before finally repositioning the various layers of clothing. ‘All set?’

Em hummed in approval. All set.

‘Right then, Pats,’ Delia said brightly, having watched the connection between the two younger women in silence for a moment prior to moving on, ‘back to you. Time for some postural drainage.’

Her wife groaned good-naturedly, and grinned. Get on with it, her smile seemed to say, so that you can _get out_ of here and talk some sense into my busybody best friend.

‘Okay,’ Delia answered aloud as she and Kalli moved together to flip Patsy onto her stomach and ensure all her airways were unobstructed before the cupping could begin, ‘although you were better at reasoning with her than any of us.’

Nevertheless, chats needed to be had, so she left her lover in the capable hands of their newest dear friends and sprinted down the corridor to join the company of their oldest. When she arrived, she found Trixie and Barbara perched on the counter whispering in quiet confidence. Apparently the former Nurse Franklin still felt inclined to argue. Tom, meanwhile, was tinkering about with mugs of tea; one of which he offered to Delia the second she stepped into the kitchen.

At least that was how it seemed to her.

‘Not yet thanks,’ she said softly, having left all her earlier cheerful camaraderie behind with her beloved in their bedroom, ‘I’ll set it on the side to cool for a while first.’ What she did not add was how scared she was her hands would shake when she spoke about this sensitive subject.

But Tom had helped enough parishioners with preparations for bereavement to be able to hear her hidden meaning. ‘Bourbon biscuit?’ he replied calmly.

She made a face and flicked her head towards Trixie, then lowered her voice a little further. ‘I think I’d better just bite the proverbial bullet.’

He nodded, responding by _raising_ his voice. ‘Why don’t we all sit around the table?’

His wife and their friend stopped whispering, at last aware of Delia’s presence. ‘Yes, let’s,’ Barbara agreed, standing up to take her once fellow brunette’s hand and give it a slight yet comforting squeeze.

The Welshwoman allowed herself to be led over to the table and then slumped down into a chair, staring into space for a minute or two. Eventually, now that the tea was safe on a surface, she decided she deserved a fortifying sip. Then she started to speak, hoping she would be given the grace to keep going without the irritation of interruptions. ‘I want to say right now that I wish we weren’t having this conversation. I, of all people, most want this not to be happening. I’d hope that’d be obvious, but it seems worth stating explicitly before I go any further.’

‘We understand, Delia, of course we do,’ Trixie tried to cut in, feeling guilty.

‘Let her talk, Trix,’ Barbara counselled gently, shooting an apologetic glance across the table.

‘Sorry, sweetie,’ Trixie mumbled, reaching out to clasp Delia’s hand. ‘I should be more understanding, after Christopher’s choices.’

‘It’s all right,’ Delia offered sincerely. ‘But that’s actually a useful point of connection. You may or may not know that, aside from our bereavement-specific support, one of the services the Grace Mount Memorial Foundation provides is a safe space in which people may write what is now referred to as a Living Will.’ She paused to gauge their familiarity with the concept, and was relieved to hear murmurs of comprehension. They ought to know, given the shared elements of their professions, but she had not been certain – and she felt she should clarify slightly. ‘Patsy, of course, wanted to lead by example; so she wrote one, way back when we first got charitable status. This bit is important because it shows that her wishes would be the same regardless of the particular circumstances. She has been adamant, in all the time I’ve known her, that she didn’t want to end things in hospital. As much as a great big part of me wanted to protest, even then I understood that the environment was difficult for her. How could I not, especially after my accident, never mind everything else in her past?’

She paused again, to steady herself, and now it was her to whom Barbara offered quiet guidance. ‘Take your time.’

Delia smiled despite her sadness. ‘Hospitals were the place she felt most out of control, until she became a nurse, so going back in as a patient would be too much to bear. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I digress. Basically, she wants to be at home, and she also wants to go before she “loses” any more of herself. Her chest has always been her weak spot, so we’ve worked to stave off respiratory issues for as long as we could, but now that they’re here she’s content to let things take what she considers to be their natural course. She’s refused any traditional treatment, and any arguments about competency are void because she was very strict with her solicitors in restating everything immediately after the diagnosis of early dementia last December. We don’t know how deep this infection is, she didn’t _want_ to know the specifics, but this is the second time she’s been sick since early November. It might even be pneumonia – for all our jokes earlier, I didn’t want Em to be here, really, but she needed to come – and we have no idea how long it will take, despite her various medical teams keeping proper tabs. It’ll be soon, though, and she just wants to slip away, ideally in her sleep. Not that these situations can be planned, but this is Patsy, and as usual she’s trying her best to orchestrate every last aspect. Does that make sense?’

‘It does,’ their three friends chorused, more than a little choked.

Delia grinned wider, now, relishing the possibility that she might soon get to rush back to her wife. Tom, again, noticed her restlessness and made to stand up. ‘I bet they could do with some tea in the bedroom. Help me, Babs, please?’

Once everyone had gathered together again, a brief exchange of (probably overly bright) smiles conveyed that facts had been filled in and, as far as possible, all the important people were prepared. Now it was merely time to make memories; with, of course, the assistance of music. Kalli had brought her laptop and Bluetooth speakers, through which she offered to stream some songs from Spotify – but in this she was overruled, by both the older generation and her younger partner, because they all preferred the “authenticity” of vinyl.

Patsy, especially, doted on the sound of such analogue systems. As this day was principally about the elderly former nurse, Kalli could not find it in her heart to complain.

Before the party (of sorts) could start, however, Delia’s own laptop began to sing, signalling an incoming Skype call. She leapt up to answer it, crossing her fingers in the fabric of her dress in hope that it might be who she guessed. When she saw the profile picture of the caller, she choked down a squeal, simultaneously delighted and devastated that she was correct. Delighted because her darling deserved the surprise, devastated that the contact had to be made in these circumstances. Still, at least they could all be together, in a manner of speaking, she thought as she clicked to accept the call. ‘Hello, Val, Catrin,’ she started, wondering if she would get another word in after the others heard her saying those names. ‘Thanks for Skyping so early.’

‘It’s ten am, Delia, the time difference hasn’t made us any better at lie-ins!’ Val replied with a laugh. ‘Besides, we’ve been here nearly forty years, so I think we’re used to it by now.’

Her attempt at a joke was interrupted by the appearance of Trixie behind Delia. ‘Is that Valerie Dyer?’ she asked, forever in awe of technology and thrilled at the prospect of chatting to her old roommate so easily in spite of the ocean separating them.

‘Valerie Dyer-Jones, thank you, Beatrix Dockerill. And you and I need to have words about your cheating at our online rounds of Hearts last month.’

Trixie feigned affront. ‘It’s not _my_ fault you’re all so good at card games,’ she whined, her eyes sparkling. ‘You never let me practice when we lived together. I have to recoup my losses somehow.’

Patsy had apparently not only heard but understood this barely-concealed innuendo, and was laughing so hard Delia decided she needed to avert a coughing fit, however pleasing she found this moment of lucidity. They kept things as normal as they could day to day, but the reality was that her _cariad_ only comprehended about half of what went on at any given time. ‘Come and say hi to the woman of the hour, you two,’ she said, picking up the laptop and then settling it on the bed beside her wife, so she could whack her comfortingly yet firmly on the back. ‘It’s Val and Catrin, love. From Poplar days,’ she explained in her ear.

Patsy blinked gratefully, grinning vaguely in the direction of the screen, and then shut her eyes against the ache brought on by the blue light emanating from the computer.

All this was getting a bit much, really, she thought. She knew all these people well enough because she saw them fairly often, but Delia still had to remind her of their names before they arrived, and that was mortifying. Not to mention exhausting.

God, she was tired.

And her chest hurt.

She could barely breathe for all the coughing.

Thank goodness for Kalli, whose name she could remember thanks to context and her connection to Em. She didn’t think she could ever forget Em.

And definitely not Delia. Darling Deels.

At any rate, she wasn’t too keen on being here when she did.

She didn’t mind how much longer she had, as long as she got to spend some quality quiet time with her wife.

God, she was tired.

And her chest hurt.

She could barely breathe for all the coughing.

‘I’m sorry that wasn’t wildly successful, but I knew you’d want to see her. Chat soon. Lots of love to you both.’ The sound of the conversation ending and Skype shutting down roused Patsy from her confused, probably repetitive, contemplation; and she forced her eyes open to catch Delia’s attention. Her “Welsh Wonder” was still beside the bed, and instantly alert.

‘All right, _cariad_?’ Receiving no affirmative blink in response, she quickly signalled to everyone else that it was time for goodbyes.

What followed was nothing short of a procession; one rather poignant in its positivity. Their queen size bed became the obvious place for a pile of cuddles, no-one paying any mind at all to the possibility of cross-infection now. Then Kalli helped a determinedly-smiling Em back into her chair, where they struggled with persuading her feet back into her boots, and eventually they were ready to leave. Their exit was swiftly followed by that of Barbara and Tom, who both knew better than to linger too long when spouses needed space and time, and merely stayed to place a poinsettia plant securely on the bedroom windowsill. Trixie, meanwhile, to make up for her earlier outrage, was spending the night – just down the hall in the guestroom, as she had done so often over the past twelve months.

Even she made herself scarce, however, and soon Delia was alone with her darling.

‘It’s just us now, Pats,’ the Welshwoman whispered whilst she slipped out of her day dress and into her night things. ‘I’m coming to _cwtch_ , all right?’ Patsy’s only reply was to cough, and Delia melded her wifely and nursing duties yet again, to _yet again_ provide a comforting whack on the back. Her erstwhile English rose – as stunningly beautiful as ever, at least in her estimation – at last managed to blink and register a form of recognition. Smiling softly, therefore, the smaller of the two women climbed into bed and situated herself so they could see each other and snuggle simultaneously. ‘Tired, love?’ she asked reflexively, once they were settled. Those still brilliant blue eyes blinked again, and stared steadily at her, so she asked another question. ‘Too tired for records?’ She was gifted with a third blink, at which she pulled Patsy even closer in, getting as near her wife’s ear as she could. ‘All right, _annwyl_ ,’ she said soothingly, ‘I’ve got you. I’ll sing you off to sleep.’

She even had the exact song with which to ease her sweetheart into slumber already spinning around in her head, because it evoked both humour and heartache. It meant so much to them, in all its versions, but Delia had no doubt about which to pick this evening. Judy Garland’s original. The first; and Patsy’s favourite. So, as she started to sing, she only sought strength in the sense of her sweetheart beside her and sight of the poinsettia she could see perched on the windowsill just beyond Patsy’s shoulder:

 _‘Have yourself a merry little Christmas_  
_Let your heart be light_  
_Next year all our troubles will be out of sight_  
  
_Have yourself a merry little Christmas_  
_Make the Yuletide gay_  
_Next year all our troubles will be miles away_  
  
_Once again as in olden days_  
_Happy golden days of yore_  
_Faithful friends who were dear to us_  
_Will be near to us once more_  
  
_Someday soon we all will be together_  
_If the fates allow_  
_Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow_  
_So have yourself a merry little Christmas now_ ’

Having “muddled through somehow”, she found that she had tired _herself_ out, and would likely soon drift off to join her darling in dreaming. She did so very shortly, and they both slept through supper. In fact, it was only when the early light of the next morning began to filter through the relatively flimsy fabric of their curtains that Delia woke again with a start, feeling guilty for not guarding her gorgeous girl over night. Patsy seemed peaceful when she looked at her, however, so she leant to press a gentle kiss to her love’s lips.

When her older wife did not stir at all, and she felt no breath against her cheek, Delia checked Patsy’s pulse, calling rather frantically through to their friend as she did. ‘Trix, I need you!’

The other woman had been waiting up all night for such a summons and sprinted, as fast as her arthritic knees would carry her, to find Delia’s gaze desperate but resigned.

It appeared their patient, particular, Patience had got her wish and slipped away in her sleep. They would find out _why_ in due course. But for now they would hold each other and hug.

~

_In early December 1963, after assisting Val with a particularly gruelling labour (a breach birth), Delia Busby was trudging home through the dusky streets of Poplar and feeling spectacularly unseasonable. This was not due to her day – far from it, actually, because seeing the joy on both the mother and father’s faces was enough to fill even the most irritated of individuals with something akin to the festive spirit – but because she knew there would be no room for such excitement when she reached the flat she shared with her sweetheart (no, fiancée!)._

_The early part of this month was too raw for her usually radiant redhead, and especially so this year, since there had been the first anniversary of her father’s death to mark in November as well. Delia understood this, and consequently was doing her level best to offer compassionate counsel, just as Patsy always endeavoured to summon a sort of smile so she didn’t come across as a complete and utter humbug. But this Christmas was different for the brunette too, because the rota at Nonnatus meant she had no need to make excuses about not heading back to Wales, and so a sliver of her soul had hoped her_ cariad _would want to use the time they had been granted together to break from the pain of their pasts and forge new traditions for the future._

_So far, though, there had been no such luck._

_Admittedly it was only the eleventh, and even the Nonnatuns had differing ideas about when it was most appropriate to put up a tree, but her Mam and Tad would have had theirs up for days already…and she missed it. Gosh, she was even beginning to miss_ them _, she realised guiltily as she fumbled in her pocket for her keys. She had arrived at the first front door, and it was too chilly to put off her entrance into the tiny hallway any longer._

_Steeling herself, therefore, she stepped inside and searched for the second key, glad that her breath had stopped being visible thanks to the slight increase in temperature. At least it’s nowhere near as cold as this time last year, she thought, reminding herself to be grateful for seemingly small but actually very big mercies._

_Then, satisfied with the fact that her rosy cheeks would be sufficient as a façade, she opened the other door and called out to her partner in greeting. ‘I’m home, Pats!’_

_A delighted shout drifted through to her eager ears. ‘I’m in the lounge, Deels, darling!’_

_Hearing the considerably brighter tone of her favourite English accent, it took the Welshwoman all of her willpower not to run into that room right away. Instead, retaining some semblance of sensibility, she shucked off her shoes and changed into the slippers which had been left lovingly by the hall table. Then, and only then, did she allow herself a little extravagance – skipping towards the lounge door…and stopping promptly in her tracks._

_For what she saw was most unexpected: Patsy sitting at the piano, beaming, hands poised to play, beside a bare yet breathtakingly beautiful pine tree._

_Before the brunette could summon any speech, she heard the beginnings of music, and stayed silent in order to work out the name of the piece from the opening bars of its melody._

_It was familiar; famous even._

_Ah yes. “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas”. How perfectly, poignantly, like Patsy to pick a song both seasonal and sad. Beaming too, the brunette wondered briefly which version was behind that red hair, but as she opened her mouth to ask her musings were interrupted._

_‘I realise it being pre-decorated would have made this more of a picture postcard affair, love,’ Patsy drawled with a softer smile, ‘but I thought it’d be more_ fun _if we could do that together.’_

 _‘Oh, absolutely,_ annwyl _,’ Delia agreed immediately. ‘Thank you for saving it for me. Thank you for_ sorting this at all _,’ she added after taking another moment to make sure the scene surrounding her was real and not liable to vanish if she looked away._

 _The older of the two women blushed beetroot. ‘You’re welcome, Deels,’ she said sincerely, ‘it seemed about time we start making Christmas special for_ us _, here and now, even with everything it’s signified in the past.’_

 _Her younger fiancée flushed, too, covering for the tears smarting behind her eyes by crooking her finger in a beckoning gesture. ‘Come here,_ cariad _.’_

_Patsy stood, striding willingly across the space between the piano and her petite partner. ‘What is it?’ she asked on a whisper as she wrapped the smaller woman in her arms._

_The brunette giggled, hiding her face in a conveniently placed shoulder. ‘Just that I was thinking the same thing as I walked back from work. You really are wonderful, you know. Fancy using your day off to lug that in here!’_

_‘Well,’ the redhead huffed cheekily against her neck, ‘I had to do it when you weren’t around or else I’d’ve spoilt the surprise.’_

_There really was no arguing with that logic. Delia did, however, have one remaining conundrum to which she required an answer. ‘Garland or Sinatra?’ she asked, looking up her lover expectantly._

_Patsy was momentarily nonplussed. ‘Sorry?’_

_Her beloved brunette shook her head so hard in mock-annoyance that her bun slipped slightly. ‘What you were playing just now, Pats,’ she explained, tutting. ‘Which version of “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas”? Judy Garland or Frank Sinatra.’_

_The redhead regarded her incredulously. ‘Judy Garland, obviously,’ she replied, only just succeeding in keeping the derision from her voice._

_Blue eyes sparkled before her, enjoying this slightly sillier disagreement probably more than they ought. ‘Come now,_ cariad _,’ Delia continued. ‘Surely even you can agree that, however beautifully she sang it, the original lyrics don’t leave spirits as high as they ought for this sort of song?’_

 _‘That’s the_ point _, though,’ Patsy whined. ‘Circumstances might feel dire, but they’ll be better soon, so we can be happy now in the hopes of that.’_

 _Her petite partner paused, pondering, and saw that this made sense. The older woman would have latched onto the lyrics after Liberation, since the film would just recently have been released, and the song’s popularity with the troops had swiftly cemented its status as a staple. Her lover would likely have used it to navigate the strange new world around her. Still, if tonight was an attempt to inaugurate some new traditions, perhaps Patsy would be amenable to adjusting her perspective. She spoke up again with this in mind. ‘What if that_ was _the point before, love, but it’s different now? What if it’s a promise of positivity in the present, despite all the difficulty in the past?’_

_She stopped speaking whilst she watched the taller woman consider and eventually reply. ‘A third option: what if it’s a reminder to make the most of now because we have no idea what the future might bring?’ Patsy asked, her words tumbling out as if they could not keep up with her thoughts. ‘Or what if it’s all three at once?’_

_‘That I can accept,’ Delia allowed, deciding her_ cariad _had made enough concessions that evening. ‘Now, Pats, may we please get some tinsel onto this tree?’_

 _‘Of course we may, Deels,’ her fiancée purred, thrilled that her efforts had been so well received. ‘And we may_ even _put Sinatra’s version on in the background whilst we do, because I know the real reason you like it best is that it relates to the Christmas when we were first being a bit braver with our feelings.’_

_‘But we didn’t kiss until the following March,’ the brunette protested, blushing at the possibility that she might have been caught out earlier than she realised._

_‘Not for want of trying on my part,’ the redhead answered wryly, smirking. ‘The daffodils on St David’s Day were a last resort, Busby, I’ll have you know.’_

_‘You mean you planned it!?’ Delia was simultaneously furious and flattered, so she went with the latter. ‘You’re a minx, Mount.’_

_Patsy cracked up at the appearance of this familiar phrase. ‘I did, yes. Like I planned_ this _, tonight. Not the specifics of how you’d respond; just how I_ hoped _you would.’_

_‘And is my reaction now as pleasing as the one back then?’ the Welshwoman asked with a wiggle of her eyebrows._

_The Englishwoman merely kissed her lightly on the lips, before propelling them both towards the tree, and reaching down to fetch a box of a few bits of tinsel, some small baubles and many other assorted decorations. Then, rather than beginning to dress the branches, she draped one of the long wraps around her fiancée’s waist, deciding a certain Nurse Busby needed decorating first. She even popped the homemade star she had cajoled out of the Cubs on top of her head, where it wobbled precariously as her sweetheart dissolved into giggles. ‘Perfect,’ Patsy declared, deadpan._

_‘You are, yes,’ Delia agreed readily, revelling in the blush which greeted her words. ‘But you’re also the silliest of gooses, and I think this tinsel will look much better on the tree.’_

_‘I suppose you’re right,’ her_ cariad _conceded. ‘Well then, let’s work upwards, and perhaps when we reach the star’s real resting place it’ll match up nicely with the more modern lyrics.’_

_‘You really do plan everything, don’t you, Pats?’ Delia’s query was half disbelieving, half admiring._

_‘I do, yes,’ Patsy concurred as she placed the requested record on the turntable of the Dansette, ‘as much as I feasibly can, anyway. Oh, by the way, Deels – whenever you heat up your dinner later, you might notice something on the kitchen windowsill. But no peeking just yet. There’s a tree to sort first.’_

_Her fiancée groaned good-naturedly, content to take a leaf out of her book and be patient, especially as Sinatra was starting to sing. So, as they listened to the lyrics together, they placed pretty (and, Delia observed, mostly painstakingly constructed from paper in an origami style) decorations at strategic intervals across the greenery until it was almost aching under the weight of their handiwork. Having paced themselves as best they could, they found that they were indeed ready to set the star in its spot when Sinatra sang that verse a second time. Since this was their house, it was not really a religious symbol, but more of a reference to the significance of stars in the language and folklore of their relationship. For, like the song providing their soundtrack now, stars were equally positive and painful. Stars were what they had decided to form out of the scars they both bore, and what they had both gazed upon in hope when the sources of those scars had forced them apart. Time and time and time again. Stars, and the literal and figurative light they offered, were the one constant in their relentlessly shifting lives – and they felt that, if they could simply stare up at them together, they could find the strength to face whatever those lives threw at them._

_Later, when Delia wandered through in search of her dinner, she also found the secret on the windowsill: a poinsettia plant which, for her, was central to any seasonal celebration. Once her food was warming in the oven, therefore, she sprinted back to her fiancée’s side, and was greeted by outstretched arms drawing her in to dance as the song played again:_

_‘_ Have yourself a merry little Christmas  
Let your heart be light  
From now on our troubles  
Will be out of sight  
  
Have yourself a merry little Christmas  
Make the Yuletide gay  
From now on our troubles  
Will be miles away, oh ooh  
  
Here we are as in olden days  
Happy golden days of yore, ah  
Faithful friends who are dear to us  
Gather near to us, once more, ooh  
  
Through the years we all will be together  
If the fates allow  
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough,  
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now,  
  
Here we are as in olden days  
Happy golden days of yore,  
Faithful friends who are dear to us  
Gather near to us, once more  
  
Through the years we all will be together  
If the fates allow  
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough, oh  
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now, ooh  
  
Merry Christmas  
Merry Christmas _’_

 _As they danced, and sang, embracing, they mutually and mentally agreed this was indeed a merry little Christmas._ Their _merry little Christmas._

_And that was the best of all possible gifts._


End file.
